Litlook 2020

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Letters from the Editors

It feels strange to live through a major historical event, doesn’t it?

I write to you from a house I haven’t left in weeks, a timeless void, a fever dream that I haven’t woken up from since March 12, 2020. You know how it goes. The days all melt and burn and twist together, March lasting eighty years but April taking six seconds, and May dragging on and on... even time itself seems to be social distancing. I sat down to check on my Animal Crossing island for thirty minutes, but what do you know? Five hours have passed, and I still haven’t finished my algebra homework.

Sometimes it feels strange, thinking about all of this. When we think of an apocalypse, we think of fire and death and humans turning on each other, bloodthirsty and violent and oh-so-desperate to survive. Instead we’re living through a pandemic, and we’ve discovered that the only thing worse than wandering hellish badlands is not being allowed to wander at all. There are days when it feels like the only thing to do is curl up in your room and try to remember the last time you hugged your best friend.

Now more than ever, we need stories like these. We need an insight into other people, an opportunity to connect on a quieter level than a Zoom call or an Instagram story. We’re living through a chapter in a history textbook, but we are more than that. So, to you, the reader, I say thank you. For clicking the link, for reading our stories, for letting us be heard.

We’re living through a major historical event, but not even that can silence us.

-James R.

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Hello, Westridge. My name is Natalie M., and I am an editor/designer for Litlook, our middle school literary journal. We have been doggedly working on compiling literary student works, to bring you a collection of amazing pieces, in the hopes that you will get a laugh or tear out while reading these truly meaningful works.

For me, these challenging days have been terrible. However, with Litlook I have found a light in the dark and was able to find a little joy in my days.

It’s been several years since we’ve published a collection of middle school creative writing, and we are extremely thankful for this opportunity. I hope you enjoy reading these truly amazing pieces. Please stay safe.

-Natalie M.

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Hello! My name is Florence (or Flo-Jo for short), and I am one of the Litlook editors.

Litlook is the middle school literary journal, where over the course of the school year, we collect writing from both 7th and 8th graders. The Litlook journal provides a place to acknowledge all the talented writers here at Westridge and showcase the variety of work they have produced.

I think a common misconception about writing is for it to be considered good, it needs to be perfect. It needs to be many pages, have extravagant vocabulary and complex sentences. Sure, these things do not hurt, and writers do use them. But I would be willing to argue that they are simply things that only help enhance writing. Good writing starts by being vulnerable and truthful. Every piece in this journal is not eight pages long, some are, but most of them are no longer than a page. These pieces of writing are good because the writers are passionate about the topic, because they were willing to be vulnerable and put their writing out in the world. All these pieces are meaningful, and I know the authors found them a challenging to write. I ask that you read these pieces slowly and savor each word. Let us celebrate the power of words, and how these authors used them gracefully.

Making this journal come to life during a pandemic was a challenge, and it forced the Litlook staff to get creative with how we worked together. Technology caused some problems, but it also allowed us to make this happen, which I am incredibly grateful for. There were many nights spent messaging over Microsoft Teams, and we had some beautiful and funny moments.

This journal has some humor and joy, something that we could all use right now. The world is chaotic at the moment, and everything feels strange. In a way, I felt a lot of comfort making this issue of the journal. Many of these pieces were written before the pandemic, and it was nice to remember the simpler times when they were written.

I hope you enjoy the 2020 Litlook Journal: Quarantine Edition, as much as I enjoyed making it.

-Florence J.

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In the beginning, it wasn’t serious. It’s over there, people would say. Just rumors and jokes, not caring, not worrying. It won’t come here. But then it spread. Not here, people said. Precautions were taken. Wash your hands. Stay home if you feel sick. Use hand sanitizer.

And then bang. We were urged inside, urged to stay. Keep your distance, six feet away. The masks sold out, the hospitals were swamped and overwhelmed. Borders shut and flights stopped, and suddenly it was here. Right in front of us.

Here we are. Two months since schools around the country closed, and yet still we go on, society up and running. “Staggering” might be a better word. But we’re doing it. We’re persevering and struggling through it.

We’re living through history, guys.

And it’s not a very fun history.

We are the age of masks and of hand sanitizer, of six feet apart and improvised elbow-bump, ankle-tap, don’t-get-your-germs-on-me dance greetings. We’re the age of panic-buying toilet paper, of crossing to the other side of the street if there’s someone else.

What a lovely story this will be to tell future generations.

But while it may not seem that lovely right now—in fact, for me it seems like one of the worst things to have occurred in my lifetime—we will emerge bigger, better, faster, more! Okay, seriously: we will emerge stronger. After all, if we can survive quarantine and not knowing what day it is anymore, then we can survive anything.

In the meantime, enjoy this wonderful creation of literary masterpieces carefully and painstakingly compiled over months of mostly-constant work.

Formatting it was a nightmare, so you better enjoy it. And when you’re done, if you have the guts to finish it, perhaps you’ll have learned something, or laughed.

Together, we can survive anything.

Just not the irresistible lure of Pinterest when we should be doing homework.

Or is that just me?

-Miranda F.

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Westridge – I’ve been wearing the same jacket for weeks, now, on top of various big t-shirts and old sweatpants. With summer quickly approaching and temperatures climbing to 80, 90 degrees a day, the jacket isn’t exactly necessary. But it’s comforting, an envelope of warmth and familiarity in this uncertain time. Like a good book, the retelling of a familiar story, or a surreal poem, it’s large enough to get lost in while small enough to fit, cool enough to feel like home and hot enough to make one just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

After months working from the 7th grade English classroom and our own low-lit bedrooms, bribing classmates with ice cream and hosting poetry contests, drafting countless emails and experimenting with different online publishing programs, we proudly present Litlook 2020, a collection of short stories, poems, essays, rants, and musings to keep you warm, make you cry, smile, laugh, and wonder, and to blanket you with feeling amidst these unpredictable days – to cover you in emotion, to be your jacket.

Enjoy.

Sincerely, Ilena M., Litlook 2020 Editor

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Litlook Magazine 2020: Quarantine Edition

Letters from the Editors …………. Litlook Editors …………. page 1 Man Out Of Me …………. Miranda F., 7th …………. page 8 Haiku …………. Lily Blue S., 8th …………. page 13 Haiku …………. Asta U., 8th …………. page 13 Haiku …………. Maria G.I, 8th …………. page 14 Haiku …………. Addie K., 8th …………. page 14 Haiku…………. Emery F., 8th …………. page 15 Haiku…………. Ande S., 8th …………. page 15 Snowballs …………. Natalie M., 7th …………. page 16 Deafening Silence …………. Mirella C., …………. page 17 I am a Wild Boar …………. Ilena M., 8th …………. page 18 Cinderella …………. Mirella C., 7th …………. page 20 Pandorus’s Box …………. Reed D., 7th …………. page 21 Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear …………. Alice C., 7th …………. page 24 History of the World …………. Florence J., 7th …………. page 25 Pants? …………. Alice C., 7th …………. page 26 Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose and the Jungle Squirrel …………. Isla R., 7th …………. page 27 Story of Her …………. Reed D., 7th …………. page 28 Jazz More Often …………. Ellie L.S., 7th …………. page 29 The Demise of Little Mx. Perfect …………. Sophia S., 7th …………. page 30 The Demise of Little Mx. Perfect …………. Sophie C., 7th …………. page 30 The Ghastly Gas Station Bathroom …………. Willow N., 7th …………. page 31 Barbie …………. Lily J., 7th …………. page 32 Remanence of Rain …………. Emily L., 7th …………. page 33 A Human Nightmare …………. Mia G., 7th …………. page 34 Frightened …………. Ilena M., 8th …………. page 35 Greetings and Salutations …………. Arden R., 7th …………. page 36 Freedom Flag …………. Miranda F., 7th …………. page 37 Always Aspire to the Infinite …………. Florence J., 7th …………. page 38 Faucet …………. Mia G., 7th …………. page 39 Rain …………. Miranda F., 7th…………. page 40 Act of Kindness …………. Emily L., 7th …………. page 41 Act of Kindness …………. Arden R., 7th …………. page 41 Bubbling …………. Ilena M., 8th …………. page 42 Silence …………. Miranda F., 7th …………. page 43 The Demise of Stage Lights …………. Florence J., 7th …………. page 44 Fencepost Shadows …………. James R., 8th …………. page 45 I’m In Space. Bummer …………. Lauren L., 7th …………. page 46 Dear Wendy, I Miss Me …………. Cindy C., 7th …………. page 47 One Step Closer …………. Sophene A., 7th …………. page 50 Handle to Hold …………. Lilly S., 7th …………. page 51 Friends from the Beginning …………. Saba K., 7th …………. page 52 Everything Is Going to Be All Right …………. Florence J., 7th …………. page 53

7 A Garden …………. Arden R., 7th …………. page 54 Louder Than Bombs …………. Coco F., 7th …………. page 55 Truth Exposed …………. Amanda G., 7th …………. page 58 Milo …………. Stephanie C., 7th …………. page 59 Staring at a Brick Wall …………. Arden R., 7th …………. page 60 My Dog …………. Lily J., 7th …………. page 61 Blue Trunk …………. Lusha G., 8th …………. page 62 Alien From the Sun …………. Emily L., 7th …………. page 64 Hold That Thought …………. Arden R., 7th …………. page 65 alien poem …………. Luciana P., 7th …………. page 66 Just White to You …………. Tzedek SG., 8th …………. page 67 Imagination Destination …………. Natalie M., 7th …………. page 69 2018: A Space Essay …………. James R., 8th …………. page 71 Otherworldly Window …………. MG N., 7th …………. page 73 Windows …………. Lindsay B., 7th …………. page 74 Twins …………. Amanda G., 7th …………. page 76 How to be perfect …………. Rachel K., 8th …………. page 77 Closing …………. Luciana P., 7th …………. page 78 Cover art by Natalie M.

8 MAN OUT OF ME Miranda F. “Are you ready, Ping?” Mother asks quietly, putting a comforting arm around my shoulders, holding out my phone with a small smile.

Shaking all over, I take the phone and tap the Mail icon. The app opens up, and [1] appears on the inbox. This is it. The email I’ve been waiting for, building up to for over three years. Taking a breath, trying to calm my nerves, I open the inbox, and there it is: From: Doctor Jones Subject: Chest Surgery Approval, Appointment, and Cost Dear Patient, This letter concerns your approval for top surgery. We have reviewed your case and files and have found you applicable for the services we have to offer.

Before proceeding, we implore you to make sure that you have any and all affairs in order. You will be incapacitated for quite a while, and it is best to make sure everything is under control.

The total cost of your surgery will come out $7,000. Now would be an ideal time to contact your insurance, if you have it.

We look forward to seeing you at our facilities on SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, at 10:00am.

Sincerely, Dr. Jones “You got it, Ping,” Father breathes. I stare at the words as they rise and swirl, spinning around in my mind. The words grow blurry and distorted, and with a wave of embarrassment, I realize I’ve started crying. Hastily, I wipe the tears away, looking up at the ceiling, blinking to clear my eyes.

“Now, Ping,” Father continues in a lighthearted tone, “just because you’re a man doesn’t mean you can’t cry.”

I turn and bury my head in his shoulders, drawing in shaky breaths. “I didn’t expect to feel this way,” I mumble against his jacket. “I thought I’d…” I break off, trying to stop from crying again.

“What, you thought you’d be cool and smooth and just say, ‘Yeah, whatever’?” Mother teases gently.

“Exactly.”

“You did it,” Mother says. “You’ve waited years for this, endured so much…” her voice breaks and she swallows back tears. Looking up, I can see that Father isn’t doing much better.

9 “Thank you,” I say, voice barely about a whisper. For some reason, it feels too important to say loudly.

«««««««««««»»»»»»»»»»» A huge smile is on my face for the entire drive. Father sits at the wheel and Mother sits in the back with me, holding my hand and squeezing it occasionally, casting supportive looks my way when she does.

The scenery passes by—tall buildings that pierce through the heavy grey clouds filled with the promise of rain, concrete lots and parking structures, gourmet restaurants right next to fast food places. The streets are littered with empty chip bags and plastic six pack rings, the gutters pooling with water. So, I think, too excited to even care much, this is what big city is like.

“Turn left here,” Mother says suddenly.

“No, no, Google Maps is telling me the next street,” Father retorts.

“Apple is much better,” Mother says dismissively, giving up and relaxing again, running her fingers over mine.

“Ma,” I start, “is Shang coming?”

“Last time I checked, yes.” She frowns. “Of course he is. Why do you ask? Did you hear something?”

“No, I didn’t,” I say hurriedly. “Just…wondering. I hope he hasn’t backed out. And if he has, I can’t really blame him, cause…” I look down at my lap, fiddling with my phone. “You know.”

“Ping, you’re being ridiculous,” Mother says firmly, gripping my hand tighter. “Shang is a wonderful man, a wonderful person. He has never failed you before, and I highly doubt he’ll start now. You know he knows how much this means to you.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.” But still I got to Messages and open his contact and, after hesitating a moment, type in, Hey. Anything interesting happen to you lately? All I have on my end is skyscrapers.

After a moment, Shang’s reply appears. Nope, nothing for me either. Same view as u, prob, considering we’re going 2 the same place. And yes, Ping, to answer ur real question, I am still coming.

I breathe a sigh of relief. It calms me, just seeing it reaffirmed, acknowledged.

“Here we are,” Father announces as the car comes to a stop in a parking space in front of a clean building with glass doors. I look out the window, feeling panic suddenly sweep over me, heart starting to beat at sprint competition speed. A wave of nausea grows in my stomach.

“It’s alright,” Mother whispers, rubbing my back, holding my hand. “You’ve come so far, Ping.

You’re almost there.”

I take a breath, closing my eyes briefly before I reach out for the door handle and push the door open, stepping out. Mother holds my hand and guides me across the lot, keeping me steady—my legs feel like jelly and I’m willing to bet my life that if Ma let go, I’d fall.

10 Father opens the building doors and they walk me up to the desk. The receptionist smiles encouragingly down at me. “10 am appointment, I’d guess that you’re Ping and family?”

“Bingo,” Father says.

“Great. Now, I just need you to sign in here” —the receptionist pushes a clipboard across the desk to me— “and sign your waiver as well, then you’ll be all set. When you’re done, feel free to wait over there, the door by the water fountain. Down the hall is a cafeteria, which will only be open to your family members, I’m afraid.”

I nod, quickly scanning over the waiver before scrawling my signature across the bottom line. Mother signs too, as caretaker, then I put down my name and the time on the sign-in sheet, handing it back to the receptionist.

“Here, shall we wait in the room?” It isn’t really a question—Father takes my arm and leads me into the waiting room. We sit in the chairs and are silent for a moment, all three of us looking down at the ground. There’s a wall TV playing the news channel and a small crate of magazines and newspapers across the room, piled high with SUNSET and PEOPLE and THE WALL STREET JOURNAL. I’m not big on news and I’m far too nervous to read, so I don’t really have anything to focus on. My gaze darts across the room, searching for anything of interest, anything to occupy my mind. Finding nothing, I swallow and close my eyes, clenching my hands into fists, nails biting against my skin.

I think back to my school years, back to how I felt before a test. Nerves high, heart racing at top speed, stomach filled with seasick and butterflies—the malicious kind, mind you. That’s how I feel now—only a million times worse.

I should be excited. Thrilled. Euphoric. This is biggest day of my life, the moment I’ve been dreaming of for years. My heart should be filled with joy.

I should definitely not feel like I’m about to faint in sheer panic.

“Ah, I almost forgot,” Mother says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts, lifting a backpack that looks ready to burst into view. “This is your surgery-care bag.” She unzips it and rummages through it. “Five loose button-down shirts and sweatpants, plus changes of undergarments. A few warm socks and slip-on shoes. Travel headrest. Binders. Cough drops. What else…”

“The rest is at the hotel room. Don’t worry about a thing,” Father says, laying a hand on Ma’s arm. They’re both nervous, but not nearly as much as me. He’s about to speak again when his gaze flickers to the door and he smiles. “Shang!”

I turn around so fast I nearly break my neck, shooting to my feet. There he is, standing by the door, looking slightly shy. He smiles at me. “Hey, Ping,” he says, holding out his arms. I oblige, rushing forward to give him a hug. We broke up when I first came out as trans, but he’s always been by my side.

My heart stops beating as fast and I feel my stomach start calming down. Just a bit, but enough for me to know that it’s happening.

“I hear you’re not allowed to eat anything,” he continues as he joins us, pulling up a chair. “That sucks. I’m hoping you’re game for a meet-up someplace—my treat—when you’ve recovered enough?”

“Absolutely.”

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«««««««««««»»»»»»»»»»» “Ping?” A man in a white coat sticks his head through the door. “Hi. I’m Dr. Jones, I’ll be the one performing your surgery.”

I stand up, swallowing, throat suddenly dry. “I—I’m Ping. Tha—” I break off, fighting to keep from blushing in shame. “Nice to meet you,” I finish softly.

“Pre-surgery nerves?” Dr. Jones grins good-naturedly, holding the door open as Father, Mother, and I file out, Shang bringing up the rear. “No worries. I totally get it, and trust me—I’ll be doing everything I possibly can to help ease your mind.”

Dr. Jones leads us through the halls. A woman clutching a handbag in an iron grip rushes past us, a nurse at her heels, frantically trying to calm the lady down. Just before a door shuts, I see a young man sitting on the operation table, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t have any family around him. An older guy, tall and well built, pushes through the entrance door, looking rather shy, wearing a zip-up hoodie and hunching over so badly that my own shoulders hurt.

“Answer questions, explain what everything does—or not,” Dr. Jones continues. “I’ve also had patients who don’t need the details. Whatever helps. And here we are, room 5.”

I step inside and look around—the room seems pretty standard, looks like most of the surgery rooms I’ve seen in TV shows. White walls. Table in the middle, a chair on the side, several computers and other monitors lining the walls and sitting on racks. A small TV is attached to a ceiling fixture, giving off a low buzz of dialogue from the sitcom that’s playing softly. If it’s there for me, then it’s a waste of cable services. By the time I’m able to open my eyes again, once the anesthesia has worn off, I’ll be so loopy I won’t even know that I can see. I got anesthesia once before, years ago, when I had to get teeth removed. When I woke up, I didn’t know what the heck was going on or where I was. Mother’s told me I started crying.

It’s definitely not my proudest memory.

Under the TV, pushed up in a corner, is a small nightstand with a plastic water bottle and a stack of those tiny Dixie cups. A few wilted flowers sit limply in a plain blue vase. Above the vase, high enough so that no one outside can look in, is a window that spans from wall to wall, letting in the grey sunlight.

“We’ll get you situated and comfortable, explain the procedure to you and then get you under anesthesia, and when you wake up…” Dr. Jones spreads his hands as though finishing a magic trick. And, in a way, I suppose this is magic. Four years ago, I never would’ve I’d come this far. I’d thought it would be binders and oversized hoodies for the rest of my life, hiding my hair in a beanie. I never even thought I’d get on T. But then I did. That had been the first stage—now, here I was, in the office where I’d get top surgery. This was the next stage. Not the end, but getting there.

“Okay, Ping. If you need to do anything, do it right now. You’ll be in a not-very-mobile state for a while after your surgery,” Dr. Jones says, breaking through my thoughts.

I’m about to shake my head, no, I don’t need anything. I’m ready, when I have a thought. “Yeah. Where are your restrooms?”

“Out in the hall and to the left.”

12 “Thanks.” I push out of the room and quickly hurry down the hall to the restroom. It’s open, thankfully, so I enter, lock the door, and come to stand in front of the mirror. Slowly, with shaking hands, I lift my shirt and take it off, looking at my reflection. This, I realize, is the last time I’ll wear a binder to alleviate dysphoria. The next time will be for medical reasons only.

I run my hands over my chest, the chest I’ve been wanting to be rid of for four years, binding and compressing, hating, hiding. I had locked myself in the bathroom and leaned against the door, keeping my crying silent. I had lived for the days when a new binder came in the mail and had tried to keep myself under control on the days when I’d realized my binder had stretched out.

Now, finally, it’s coming to an end.

This is the last day I have to deal with it.

And that thought gives me the peace I need. I don’t need to hate my chest anymore—it’s going to be gone by the time I wake up.

With pride swelling in my heart, victory song playing in my head, I put on my shirt and leave the restroom, making my way back to the surgery room. Shang is leaving as I enter—he’ll need to rest up before he takes the evening shift of looking after me once I finish surgery. He gives me another hug, whispering, “I told you, didn’t I? I said I’d make a man out of you.”

Sitting on the surgery table, turning to face Dr. Jones, I say, “I’m ready.”

I lay back, closing my eyes briefly before turning my head to look out the window, out at the grey sky, out at the world that, in a few hours, will never see me as anything other than who I know I am. The clouds will grow dark and the skies will split, sending showers of rain to flood down streets and pool around gutters. Cars will race through puddles, spraying rain onto pedestrians rushing to their jobs.

I’ll wake up and I’ll be sobbing, I’ll be disoriented, I will hate myself and think I made a mistake.

But I will be free.

When I wake up, my reflection will finally show who I am inside.

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Like watching paint dry I have now decided I sleep for fun -Lily Blue S.

I leash up my dogs I walk circles through the neighborhood I end where I began -Asta U.

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We are alone but Together we do the same Scrub our hands with soap -Maria G.I.

My brush on canvas Days begin to blend like paint Art is my escape -Addie K.

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The TV turns on Just to play the same old thing Pandemic murmurs -Emery F.

I take a lot of walks my mom makes me Family bonding I guess -Ande S.

16 SNOWBALLS

by force, under arms, they marched promptly to the scene of action, perhaps nothing short of the stern necessity which existed.

Our loves, liberties, and properties will be held with closed doors.

If possible, acknowledge the justice of them, and your inability to do it in the present moment.

Like snowballs, dangerous things, supreme.

The powers with which each should be invested, not suffered.

The questions were debated with great eagerness and force of argument‌

-Natalie M.

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Deafening Silence Mirella C.

Crickets chirping. People chattering. Miscellaneous noises. There doesn’t seem to be a moment when sound isn’t around us. Most people like it when there’s noise, it means they aren’t alone. Something to still in the elephant in the room. People tell us to use sound as a tool, to create and share ideas. As path for the journey of life, don’t stray too far from sound or you might just be lost in your own thoughts. But where did that all start? What prompted us to connect and share ideas?

Silence, the birth of sound. We take silence for granted, we see silence as a symbol of loneliness and reservations for your thoughts when really, silence is the way that began the idea of self- reflection, disconnecting from the world and learning to appreciate it. Silence may lead to new ideas and unbridled creativity, paths that lead you to new approaches for you to pursue.

Some people think music is sound, when sometimes music is just something to make you happy, whether it be notes, or maybe just the calm tweeting of the birds outside your window.

For me, music can be as simple as the rhythm of your own heartbeat or your breath. We are surrounded with interpretations of music, when really you can have access to music without anything else but yourself, and sometimes that may lead to a period of self-reflection.

Not long ago, the incessant thumping reminder of an essay hammered at the back of my head as my body sank into the couch cushions. Slowly my eyes began to blur together. The ceiling stared patronizingly down at me as white noise filled my ears. Waiting. A chill ran through me as I realized I was alone. Silence always scared me, from the tales when we were small about children lost in the woods at night with only silence surrounding them, or a beautiful maiden cursed with silence by an evil witch, it became the anticipation of something bad, unknown. Deep breaths, I thought, meditation.

I closed my eyes, but my body tensed as if waiting for something to grab me. Breathe out…block the world outside, I felt my weight against the couch, my head’s weight on me. I noticed things, the soft furry-like suede pillows against me, the sour-sweet smell of comfort and lemons, my mom’s favorite scent. And in this state, my essay topic came to me.

Let that feeling of anxiety go and miracles will happen, whether it be a solution to a problem or a remarkable idea! Stare out a window and let your mind take you somewhere instead of imposing limits on your brain.

18 I am a Wild Boar Ilena M.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The silence of the afternoon is interrupted by a single icicle melting down the side of a walnut tree. The droplets fall from century-old branches, graze the sides of snow-covered leaves and land, finally, in the muddy slush. The earthy scent of the forest and burning firewood from a nearby house mingle in my snout. As I wander through the woods, leaves crunch softly beneath my hoofs, although I try to be as quiet as possible.

“Ouch!” Cries Alexander, my little brother, his foot stuck in a bramble.

“Shh!” His feet are too loud, as is his voice. He has no respect for nature because he’s not a wild boar, like me. I run freely through the forest and hunt for berries and mushrooms. I roll in the lush earth and never, ever get my feet stuck in the brambles, because I am careful. Because I am a wild boar.

“Hey, hey! You know what’s grey and doesn’t fly?”

“Shh, Alexander!”

“A pigeon!”

Alexander roars with laughter.

Suddenly, I develop a strong craving for figs.

Figs remind me of the day Papa built the air raid shelter.

Alexander and I spent all afternoon munching on figs, giggling at the silly jokes Papa made to pass the time. I recall every detail of that fateful day so vividly: Dressed in his worn, blood-stained work shirt, Papa shoveled dirt from dawn to well past dusk.

When Mama finally called him for supper, fried pork chops from Papa’s shop and lucious cherry pie, he refused to come inside.

“But, Jonathan, it’s cold out there! Come on!” Mama called. Papa protested.

“I made your favorite meal!” She tried again.

“I’m not moving.”

“You think I’m going to wait out here while you ruin our backyard? There are no air raids and no messing around! Come inside!”

“No!” Mama went back into the house, her face burning with shame and heartbreak. She, Alexander, and I ate in silence, watching Papa as his shirt turned from the reddish-white of a butcher’s uniform to a mess of brown and green, dripping with sweat and resilience.

Nothing seemed particularly significant about that night. That his assistant at the shop was plotting nuclear war against him was nothing but one of Papa’s silly superstitions; there was nothing new and nothing to worry about, at least in my young eyes. But piglet, was I wrong.

It was all a blur: Papa finished his shelter. Mama destroyed it. Alexander’s smile left his face for the first time in his life, never to return. I became a wild boar, and the two of us ran away.

Now I run freely through the forest and hunt for berries and mushrooms. I roll in the lush earth and never, ever get my feet stuck in the brambles, because I am careful. Because I am a wild boar. The earthy smell of the forest and firewood from a nearby house comforts me as I work, day after day, to support myself and my little brother. I like to be a wild boar. I like the wind to

19 blow through my fur, to sleep in soft piles of leaves. It is comforting to be a wild boar. Wild boars are free and independent, strong yet tender. Not afraid, not lost, not hurt, nor lonely. I am a wild boar.

A sweet, herbaceous smell tingles my snout. Figs! Snorting with delight, I trot around the forest that is the gas station. A human with vibrant blue eyes sees me eyeing her fruit basket. “Would you like one, young man?” She asks me. “I’m a wild boar,” I growl back. She hands me an apple.

20

Cinderella Mirella C. My mother’s smile is the coffee stains on the white satin cloth.

Whose hair is the quills of a porcupine, stuffed in a cloud.

Whose hair is Cinderella

by Pompeii every single night.

Whose eyebrows are a brush of paint from Mount Olympus.

Whose eyes are the snakes of Medusa with steaming drops of caramel.

Whose eyelashes cast the shadow of dawn.

My mother, whose voice is the beckoning of clouds turned to thunder.

Whose nose is fields of wheat with crows circling above.

My mother’s wrists are the dancing sand dunes in a sandstorm.

Whose palms are the stockings etched from the fireplace.

Whose fingers are the rays from an exploding sun in the galaxy.

Whose fingers are the concentric bruises on wood.

My mother, whose cheeks are the howling wind by the forbidden apple in a lone tree.

Whose elbows are seals gliding through the Antarctic.

Whose neck is the Tigris and Euphrates surging through Syria.

Whose shoulders are the steaming mist rolling off the rubble.

My mother’s arms are the sickles of a rooster.

Whose legs are the scuttling crabs scrabbling against the tide.

Whose knees are the armadillos crumpled in the yellow grass.

Whose calves are the whales silently pressuring the air beneath.

My mother’s heart is the crafting child fabricated by the old oak tree.

21

Pandorus’s Box Reed D. We all know the Greek myth “Pandora’s Box” as a cautionary tale about a beautiful but silly and irresponsible girl unleashing all of the universe’s badness on humanity because she couldn’t follow Zeus’ simple instructions not to open a box.

But here’s a question.

If Pandora were a man, how would the act of defying the nonsensical orders of an autocratic patriarch by opening the box have been viewed?

Let’s reimagine the familiar tale by recasting Pandora as a man, Pandorus. First, we will hear how the story might have been written from Pandorus’ perspective. Might the privilege and power assumed of a male protagonist shape the narrative differently? How might Zeus have reacted if a man had opened the forbidden box instead of a woman? Second, we will keep the classical text exactly the same, substituting only the male Pandorus for female Pandora. Is Pandora’s “nasty woman” rap central to the text of the myth itself or is it a result of the sexist interpretation of a male-dominated society? * __________________ PANDORUS’ PERSPECTIVE ON THE BOX My perfect muscles are carved from a block of marble, my eyes and lips are a handful of gemstones. Cold, beautiful. Even when Athena breathed the warmth of human life into me, the chill of the marble lingered at my edges. Zeus, my creator but never my father, dropped only insatiable curiosity into the icy emptiness of my mind and nothing- not the embrace of my goddess wife, not my physical beauty- can warm me to happiness. I am the sum of precious parts but do not have the capacity for contentment innate to even the lowliest human. I cannot truly love.

The box. It has always been a part of me, a gift/curse from my creator. I must never open it for what is inside belongs to the gods, but must it not also contain my answers, my wholeness?

It tortures me. I often wonder why Zeus would give such a dangerous thing to me. There are others- gods and mortals- better suited to guarding the box. He gave me no contentment, only curiosity; does Zeus want me to open the box? Perhaps Zeus created me to bestow gifts of the gods upon mortals! And if he did not, is it not my duty to share these godly gifts in my possession to mortal man? Am I failing Zeus’ test by leaving the box unopened?!? Open it I must, or descend into madness!

I take a tiny peek into the box. And see nothing. Again, I crack the lid. I hear sleepy scuffling, building to a fevered buzzing and suddenly a foul geyser of misery roars out of the box, blowing the lid off. I slam the lid back on, but the swarm of evils are everywhere, spreading mischief and despair. Gossip and Deceit sting me, bringing me to my knees. The roar of the swarm is deafening, but I hear only the sweet tones of my good and kind wife in my ears.

Ugliness, Pettiness, Greed and Illness hover malevolently nearby and I understand the preciousness of the gifts- beauty, wealth, health, the love of a goddess- that Zeus has given me.

The box has brought darkness to mankind, but also light. Stars cannot shine without darkness.

22

In the moment of my revelation, Zeus appears, his face lined with an eternity of knowledge of the miseries I have known for only moments. I do not fear his wrath, because his eyes shine with the gentleness of a father gazing upon a son. Zeus, my father, says, “I am proud of you, Pandorus. It was always my plan for you to open the box of miseries; it was my hope that the swarm of evils would drive mortals toward goodness. I have sadly overestimated mankind, as they have not risen toward the light of goodness, but have instead fallen into darkness, and war, and thievery and murder. But you, my son, and a few other rare and good mortals, have used the perfect knowledge of the gods- of good and evil- as I had intended, to better understand and appreciate goodness. I praise you for bringing the light of knowledge to those mortals worthy of using it to illuminate and not to burn their fellow man to the ground. Knowledge is the true power of the gods, and thus, you have given mortals a chance to be godlike if they wield the gifts of the box wisely!”

I am surrounded by evils, they buzz everywhere, but they are insignificant nuisances to a man with a father, a wife, a life of contentment. ___________________________________ It’s not hard to envision Pandorus portrayed as Zeus’ son, who successfully completes the task and passes the test that Zeus has designed for him and, despite the unintentional consequence of the world falling into darkness as a result, makes his father proud. In fact, it seems ridiculous that Zeus would create a being, imbue them with insatiable curiosity, give them a box that must not be opened, and then abandon them when, inevitably, the box is opened.

However, this is exactly what happens in the traditional tale of Pandora. When Pandora opens the box and the miseries hit the fan, Zeus takes no responsibility for his failed plan and Pandora is thrown under the bus of popular opinion. The question is, did the authors themselves write this into the myth, or is this an interpretation by male society?

PANDORUS’S BOX Pandorus was modeled by Hephaestus in the likeness of Apollo. He chiseled Pandorus’ gleaming muscles from a block of white marble, made his lips the red of rubies and his eyes of sparkling sapphires. Athena breathed life into him and clothed him in the finest robes. Aphrodite decked him with jewels and a winning smile. Into the mind of this beautiful creature, Zeus put insatiable curiosity and then he gave him a box and warned him never to open it.

Hermes brought Pandorus down to earth and offered him to the goddess Epimethea, who lived among mortals. Epimethea accepted Zeus’ gift against her better judgment, but couldn’t resist Pandorus’ beauty. Thus, Pandorus came to live among the mortals, and women (and men) traveled far and wide to stand awestruck by his wondrous appearance.

Even with all of this adoration and a goddess for a wife, Pandorus was not perfectly happy, for he did not know what was in the box that Zeus had given him. It wasn’t long before his curiosity got the better of him and he had to take a quick peek. The moment he opened the lid, out swarmed Greed, Vanity, Slander, Envy and all the other evils that, until then, were unknown to mankind. Horrified, Pandorus slammed the lid on, just in time to keep Hope from flying away, too, preserving Hope from certain destruction by the unleashed miseries. The miseries stung and bit the mortals as Zeus had planned; however, the sufferings did not turn the humans good, as

23

Zeus had hoped. Instead, mankind became wicked and lied, stole and killed each other. They became so evil that Zeus decided in disgust to drown them in a flood. _________ In this tale, poor Pandorus emerges as a pawn in Zeus’ master plan. Zeus intentionally imbues Pandorus with insatiable curiosity; he wants Pandorus to open the forbidden box. Pandorus plays his part perfectly. It was Zeus’ understanding of how mortals would respond to the unleashed miseries that missed the mark.

Yet Pandora is remembered as a foolish, undisciplined girl that defied the orders of Zeus, the wise patriarch, and thereby sentenced mankind to torment and bedevilment by all of the evils that continue to beset humanity. The text of the myth itself implies that Pandora/Pandorus really only follow the inevitable course that Zeus set for her/him. Why, then, was Pandora scapegoated for the disastrous effects of Zeus’ backfired plan to create virtue among mortals? Has Pandora’s legacy been shaped by male perspectives that tend to exalt (or at least hold harmless) men and blame, undermine or disregard women?

Let’s read Pandorus’s Box through the male-centric lens that seems to have formed society’s beliefs about Pandora. If Pandora is branded as a frivolous troublemaker, Pandorus might have been celebrated as a light-bringer, strong and brave enough to defy Zeus and share the knowledge of the gods with humanity. Pandorus was more than just a pretty face; he risked the wrath of Zeus and became a champion of mortals by giving them access to a more perfect truth. Of course, this view of Pandorus is not supported by a close reading of the myth itself, but neither is the commonly held misconception of Pandora.

Pandora is painted by male historians and scholars as yet another woman who succumbs to feminine weakness to the detriment of mankind (and specifically men, who seem to be the innocent victims of female untrustworthiness). Indeed, many of the nasty traits that Pandora let loose are misogynistically associated with women, specifically, Gossip, Envy, Scheming, Deceit, Scolding and Accusation among many others. Like Eve, Pandora carries the burden of ruining the perfection of human ignorance because she couldn’t control her desire for knowledge. From the perspective of a Westridge student in 2020, Pandora’s treatment in the conventional narrative shaped by men is a transparent attempt to promote the idea that no good can come of trusting women with responsibility or knowledge *I am borrowing and adapting the structure of the myth from the version of “Pandora’s Box” in D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths, pg. 74, Ingri and Edgar Parin D’Aulaire, Delacorte Press, 1962.

24

Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear Alice C. My head spun. We drove a yoyo’s life span, climbing and falling, effortlessly, endlessly. The world stormed by, consuming its details. Occasionally, my eyes would catch glitches of the terrain, seeing through the thin layer of fabric born to be stretched across my sockets. Tents of dull blue stood out like cheekbones protruding from the skin. Uncomfortable, and never addressed. I rolled down my window, watching the solidified dust quietly distort my vision.

Music rang through my body, spreading goosebumps. Twisted jumbles of the language swam through my mind, my mouth unconsciously singing along. I realized how rare a moment like this was, just my mom and I, darkness, wind, and Bruce Springsteen crackling over the radio.

Glints from the outside caught my eye, a reflection in the side-view mirror. I don’t think I will ever understand side view mirrors. “Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear,” it read. If this is known, why can’t it be fixed?

Toes curled in my shoes, piercing gusts encompassing me. We traversed across land with no effort, no fear or pain or worth. Then we would stop, only to continue. I felt like the only point of life is to move, to be busy, to be active.

My eyes fluttered closed. I felt the invigoration of a single breath. In, out. Moments where I close my eyes and feel the light burning to be seen, eyeballs swimming across eyelids, a stomach falling in and out. To meditate, to relax, to live. Chapped lips letting go, shoulders falling, body falling. Soon enough, I’ll lose myself to the routine. Go, go, go. I’ll miss the tranquil moments, the falling.

25

History of the world They gained the palace without opposition, seizing a sword for some unequal contest.

He fell to the ground.

Death, Authority, Distance.

He was to assume submission, meanwhile, father laid down laws to in some measure protect, slaves Those in the audience, consisting of judges.

The greatest slaves.

-Florence J.

26

Pants?

Alice C. “Look away!”

“Shield your eyes!”

They quickly walked past.

“Put on some pants, bear!”

Pooh turned. Pants? What are pants?

A man held his child close, scowling at the poor clueless bear.

Pooh’s head spun. He staggered over to a cold iron bench, and although it was a sunny afternoon, it wasn’t warm anymore. His cheeks were bright pink. Blinking warily and breathing heavy, Pooh wondered why these people were being so cruel. Cars still rushed past, men and women walked by holding briefcases, talking on the phone, going about their normal business. Pooh doubted a bullet train would capture their attention. So, what’s with these pants? He dangled his paws over the edge of the bench, staring down at the ground, trying not to attract attention. He watched the shadows of the trees above him shift on his fur, and he felt eternally confused.

WEE OOO! Uh oh.

A man stood in front of him, in a navy-blue outfit and a belt of shiny things. His glower could get any misfit to quiver. He led her to a nice old lady at a weird smelling store. One who handed him the long bag with holes in them. These are pants? And his legs were supposed to go there? Pooh almost laughed.

In the small stall, he tried to pull them on.

Tight.

So incredibly tight.

Pooh looked at himself in the reflecting glass.

POP! Slowly, one by one, the buttons holding the strange pants gave out. He walked out of the stall, the pants sliding down his furry legs.

“Umm, how do I look?”

“Well, sweetie-“ Pooh gasped. A mysterious light caught his eye. Being carted out were the most fabulous pants Pooh had ever seen. They were high waisted, bright red, gleaming with sequins, and bedazzled with jewels. They had fringe on the bottom, and they TOTALLY complemented his look.

“Oh my! Wha-, how-“ Pooh couldn’t quite find the words. He lunged for the pants. “How much?”

The birds were chirping, the trees swaying, the sun shining. A slight breeze echoed through the streets, and you could spot the occasional raven lounging on park benches, waiting for a good time to grab some lunch. In the distance, you could see children running through the hills with their homemade kites, and couples on picnics, and dogs chasing frisbees. The evening traffic was starting to form, and men and women, absorbed in their lives, hustled past each other, all in muted tones of brown, black, and gray.

But in the crowd, a small red shimmering figure could be spotted.

Pooh strutted down the street. People still looked, but now in envy and awe.

27

Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose and the Jungle Squirrel Isla R. Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose’s throat is burning, she desperately needs a glass of water—but first, she has to find her cat. She looks at the dense forest and checks her watch. Luckily, it's a Friday, the one day she can use her superpower, but she has to time it just right because she only has one minute of X-ray vision. She thinks she is on the right path, so she stops to scoop up a handful of water from the Amazon River. She kneels and reaches for the water she desperately needs. Suddenly the most dreaded predator of the forest jumps out. It’s the Jungle Squirrel!!!! Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose lets out a blood-curdling scream and runs as fast as her wrinkled skinny little 83-year-old legs will go. Minutes later, she stumbles into a muddy puddle and thirstily tries to lap it up. All of a sudden, her hairless cat falls out of a nearby tree. She walks up to it and notices little bite marks on its neck.

Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose throws the cat at a tree and the cat still lies motionless, confirming her suspicions. The cat is dead. A jungle squirrel skitters up to the cat and sniffs it, then it looks at Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose. Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose narrows her eyes and stares back at the wretched little creature. Suddenly she exclaims “Jeepers! If I use my fantastic barber skills and shave this squirrel, then it could replace my cat”. So, she stands up, grabs the squirrel by the tail and heads to her RV. Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose opens the door and tries to sit down in the driver’s seat but something is poking her butt. She had a water bottle in her back pocket this whole time! Gertrude Bertha Chrysanthemum Rose chugs her water. It’s going to be a long drive back to Sunny Acres, Florida’s most lively senior citizens home.

28

STORY OF HER i enjoy the greatest combination of natural advantages. my soil is rich and fruitful i posses iron and gold and diamonds. sugar, coffee, vanilla aromatic lively, irritable, hospitable superstitious and rather inclined to independence. a blessing

-Reed D.

29

Jazz More Often -Ellie L.S.

Does it sound perfect?

These 3 instruments Almost like it’s telling a story Sounds like a song I know A similar tune and never repeating itself I feel like dancing or moving around It’s decomposed A fluid song and constantly changing Makes me happy A random list of notes and beats Unable to replay exactly There it is again!

My favorite things Happiness turns to suspense A key part disappears, now we hear something new I think I’ll start listening to jazz more often

[John Coltrane Quartet Response]

30

I was walking to my backpack after lunch. I had a good 5 minutes to do some math homework before Spanish started. I grabbed my blue pencil and started writing on my paper. I then heard leaves rustling above me. It was a squirrel shaking the tree above me. I squinted my eyes to look up and just see what it was doing. It was just watching me. Why don’t you go chew through someone’s backpack and take their popcorn or something? I laughed at myself. I thought to myself, it must be a nice day to just relax and eat someone’s bag of goldfish. Oh, what I would do for a nap right about now. I looked back down at my math worksheet and then back at the squirrel. I stared directly into his eyes and said “Lucky.”

•

Sophia S.

Currently, I am feeling a little bit like a terrible person because I can't remember anything kind that I did today. As I sit here listening to music, not knowing what to type, I realize something: kindness comes in many shapes and sizes. Unlike the common misconception, "Kindness" isn't just the classic “buying a bag of chips for someone” or “helping someone up when they fall.”

Kindness is a spectrum; Kindness is relative and varies in every different person’s view. Helping someone up after they fall could be kindness to someone, a checkmark on a list for an assignment to another, or to me it would just be being decent and doing what all humans should do to each other. I guess what I’m getting at is that everyone is typing all of these “kindnesses” that aren’t necessarily 100% kindness, they’re just deeds. This random epiphany of mine made me realize-sorry if this is too dark- that there isn’t really any “kindness” in this world. There is definitely cruelty, hate, and bitterness, but no angels, no saints. None of these myths are true. Technically this is just me being my usual cynical self, but this time I really am genuinely pondering the meaning of life. The one true kindness that humans are capable of so far is love. From my view, this kindness assignment is trying to get us to get used to doing these deeds and attempting to be “kind” to eventually lead to one thing; love. I guess my kindness today is loving. I love my family, I love my puppy, I love my friends. Since this assignment is over, my friends, I urge you to love more.

•

Sophie C.

31

The Ghastly Gas Station Bathroom Willow N. Mistere Fiddleton apprehensively took a few steps towards the toilet. How she hated gas station bathrooms. Insect repellant in hand, she bent down to get a closer look at all the dead ants lying on the toilet. As an assistant toilet cleaner, it is her duty to clean every toilet with honor and pride.

As Mistere was spraying the ants with her insect repellant, she noticed one crawl away, then another, then another. Soon, every ant on that toilet was coming back to life. Frightened, Mistere slowly went to the corner of the bathroom keeping an eye on the toilet, curled up into a ball, and started crying.

Her superpower was a secret that only she knew about, a terrible one too. Every time that she is both nervous and thirsty, she can bring bugs back to life. As the ants marched closer to Mistere, she knew she had to do something. Quickly, she dug through her oversized, squirrel-skin purse and found exactly what she was looking for. She pulled the glass out of her bag and nervously moved toward the sink.

After what had seemed like hours, Mistere finally reached the sink. As she turned on the faucet, she looked down at the glass, and to her surprise, she saw a reflection of herself. Faster than before, she retreated back to her safe corner. Time was running out. These ants won’t kill themselves, she thought to herself. It was time for a second attempt to fill her glass with water.

This time, Mistere decided to close her eyes. As she cautiously moved in the direction of the faucet, Mistere remembered that she was not only afraid of bugs and people, but also the dark!

Frantically, she opened her eyes. Everything was a blur. Mistere stood quiet and still. She could hear drops of water dripping from the faucet. It reminded her of her favorite song. It was almost as if the water was dropping to its rhythm.

Mistere was standing where she felt most vulnerable, the middle of the bathroom. Since she had been so focused on the water, she had almost forgotten about the reason why she needed it. When she looked down, it seemed like the ants had multiplied by ten. How was that possible? By now, the ants had scattered all over the bathroom. Mistere knew that obtaining this water means life or death.

This time, Mistere kept her eyes open. What was scarier, a silly reflection or hundreds of creepy-crawly ants? This time, when Mistere was marching towards the faucet, she felt both confidence and anger boiling up inside of her. While she was confident that she would kill the ants, she was also upset that the gas station, her lowest paying client, was causing her this much trouble. Finally, Mistere poured herself a glass of water. As she was quenching her thirst, Mistere watched every last ant die with joy. Mistere Fiddleton was definitely sure to give this bathroom a terrible review on Yelp.

32

Barbie Lily J.

Once upon a time, everything was perfect.

Barbie is perfect, he says.

Everything is perfect, he says Pretty in pink, he says.

Beauty is pain, he says.

Barbie smiled. She thought of when life was perfect.

Before him.

“Ken, come here,” she says, standing at the sauna door.

“Can you find my earing in here, please? It fell” “Sure,” he says as he steps in.

Bam! The door shuts.

The heat turns on.

Her plastic mouth stretches as far as it can.

Kens fist slams against the door, as it drips down onto the floor. His mouth moves to form words, but all Barbie can hear is the palm trees swaying outside. The steam fills the room like a foggy February morning. Kens nose rolls down his face like a single teardrop escaping an eye. Plastic drips down Kens legs like it’s a race to the bottom. His ankles disappear into a puddle of plastic.

His feet are nonexistent, and he is now two full feet shorter. Plastic drips down his arm and hardens at the bottom making it skinnier and longer. His head topples over and slides down the side of his body.

Barbie bends down at her waist and yanks her shoes off.

She turns around and skips, plastic knees in the sky, out the front door, bare feet touching the warm sunbathed pavement street, with a bubblegum pink sky and blood orange sun.

And everything is perfect.

33

Remanence of Rain By: Emily L. Trees swaying with wild wind, waving their branches that have been washed Raindrops creaking laughter as they hit the ground A chorus of raindrops singing ear-piercing harmonies 1, 2, 3, run!

Rhythmic footsteps crashed upon the slithery floor.

The shoes were roller skates, sliding on top of the concrete.

Boom! Blood appeared on her leg; the brown scratches burned in her skin.

Her skirt was covered in mud.

Hot tears almost ran down her eyes, she bit her lips, and stood up.

The smell of blood and iron disgusted her. She looked up at the sky as the rain continued to drain her; the howling wind laughed at her.

Friends’ comforting voices rung yet unheard, overlapped by her silent voice: I hate rain, I hate rainy days.

Sun hung on the sky for infinite days without the dark clouds circling above.

Spring leaves are brown. Summer leaves are brown. Autumn leaves are brown.

No sight of rain.

She remembered, the residue of the mud, the smell of the rain. She remembered.

Memory. Memory is Sour Patch candy, sour then sweet.

Memory is a porcupine.

Memory is a crunched piece of paper, when you reopen it, there are still wrinkles.

A teardrop fell from heaven, the girl stared up at it, she smiled.

34 A Human Nightmare Mia G. It’s been a few months since Ariel married Prince Eric. Marriage is sure not what I thought it was going to be, Ariel contemplates as she lies in bed listening to her husband’s horribly loud snores. Eric is restraining her from doing things that are important to her, and he has changed her so much. Suddenly she got an idea …

Ariel slowly and carefully slipped out of bed, not that being quiet would make too much of a difference (Eric is an incredibly deep sleeper) and crept towards the window. Opening it is risky, but she’ll take a chance. The worst that could happen is Eric catches her and keeps her in this horrid castle for an extra day. The window creaks as she pushes it open. With a quick glance behind her, she finds herself safe. A cold breeze sends shivers down her spine. Carefully, she slips down the pole lining the wall, and gracefully lands on the ground. Nervous, she creeps towards the stable and unlatches the key.

She whispers her horse’s name and he happily trots towards her. Ariel swings her legs across her horse’s back and urges him to go. They gallop to the seaside, the wind whipping her hair. She steals one final glance at the unhappy castle and that old stifling life and then rides on with confidence. Once at the shore, Ariel dismounts, hugs her horse, and tells him to go home.

As she slips into the inky black water, a sensation of freedom washes over her body. The chilly water prickles her skin, a feeling she isn’t used to. The smell of the sea water brings back bitter-sweet memories of the world she once called home. The world she can hopefully again call home. Nervous but excited, she dunks her head down and pushes her way through the water. Slowly, she opens her eyes to reveal a blurry, bubbly vision of the depths below. Through the hazy view of her surroundings, she swims to the cave she’s sure is Ursula’s. Entering the cave, she has a flash back to her first visit here: Floating in a swirl of green and purple light – her tail turning into legs and her voice being ripped from her throat. Ursula’s mocking laughter watching Ariel’s life fall apart on land.

She shakes her head to rid herself of her harsh memories. Through bubbles, she calls out Ursula’s name. To her surprise, an old, wrinkled octopus slithers from a door in the back of the cave.

Ursula has aged since the last time she saw her.

“I know what you’re here for,” Ursula hisses. “You want your old life back. I think you know I can’t give it to you.”

“Please! You don’t know how Eric treats me. He is cruel. Please help me, Ursula,” Ariel pleads.

“No,” Ursula says blandly. She turns and swims back to her door. “Don’t even think about asking me again. I’ll never agree.” With that she slams her door and leaves Ariel alone.

What Ursula doesn’t know is that Ariel know exactly where the old witch keeps Ariel’s old life.

Quietly, Ariel grabs the shell and shatters it on the ground.

“No!” Ursula yells.

Ariel floats up and is engulfed by light. Within seconds she can breathe underwater, swim, sing, and talk. She’s transformed into a mermaid again. This is all she’s wanted since the day she married Eric.

This is her dream. It has finally come true. A feeling of relief washes over her as she swims freely in the ocean.

Ariel immediately starts imagining her future: she will rule the underwater kingdom by herself as a single queen. She will spend her time volunteering; cleaning the ocean and helping the animals. She will start an underwater sanctuary where she takes in and helps animals that people are harming with plastics. She will live a free, beautiful life with her animals. It will all be so perfect…

Ariel opens her eyes and hears Eric snoring beside her. Now she is ready. She slips out of bed and creeps towards the window. Opening it is risky, but she’ll take a chance.

35

Frightened Ilena M Listening to musicals at two in the morning.

I’m cutting out pictures of elephants and whisky.

What am I doing?

When the record screeches to a halt, I cry because the world’s collapsing in on me from below taking with it my sandals which keep me grounded and contain the last few remnants of my sanity, then I realize that I never really meant any of the things that I said and never really ate the leftover sandwich that’s now decaying in my fridge and it hurts to think that when I’m gone the portable air conditioning unit that was once temporary and is now permanent will keep pounding on the roof that will no longer be mine, that my grandmother’s Kitty Cat Klock won’t stop staring till the end of time because he’s scared of the passing darkness and the coming light.

I’m flooded with everything I pretend to understand and Choked by what I pretend I don’t Worrying.

What am I doing?

36

Greeting and Salutations, On Finalsite I saw how you brought up the assignment where we ripped out a page out of your old textbook. I was working on it during spring break, and I wanted to make it look really old and damaged, despite knowing that it was old in the first place. Anyways, I got out a match and tried burning a corner- it worked. I did it again- that time also worked. But then when I tried a third time my mom saw me and started asking questions, and it was at this point that I got so distracted that I allowed the flame to creep across the page. Horrified, I fumbled my way to the bathroom to distinguish my project. By now I was furious with myself for choosing the introductory page. In the beginning, I thought, “It has barely any words! What a challenge! I’ll use this page. Wow!” However, at this point there were only 15 words at best.

I was still determined to make something out of this, and I knew that I wanted my poem to praise women some way or another. The two remnants I had to work with were the top right corner and the bottom middle. The top had the single letter R on it, and the bottom had some obscure sentence fragments. I was able to barely create the word, “Women”. Using stickers, I turned the letters O and E already on the page into “Together”. Thankfully, the world “eminent” was there. I turned the R into “Rise with our”. Altogether, my poem simply states, “Rise with our eminent women together.” What’s ironic is that “women” is so tiny. In my eyes it reflects how females are made unimportant by misogyny.

I finished it off by connecting the two fragments with string, and then taping and labelling pictures of strong ladies such as Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Now, I realize that my project might not be much compared to what I assume are other girls’ full page projects. All I can say is that I worked with what I had, even after most of it turned into ashes. I wanted to give you a little background before you saw it on Padlet.

And, of course, I got to ask, will I be docked points? Sorry…

Sincerely, Arden R.

37 Freedom Flag

Resolved kept in fear yet not to be overcome The position of affairs is a universal indisposition to peace Patiently Stubborn American

-Miranda F.

38

Always Aspire to the Infinite Florence J.

“Please come in Ms. Everest Smith,” barks one of the Queen’s guards in a stern voice as he allows Everest into the gates of Buckingham Palace. Hesitantly, she walks inside, maybe it’s the costume, Everest thinks to herself, I’m sure they don’t get too many clowns here. Oh god! I do hope the Queen likes my clowning, it would terrible if I let my stage fright get to me.

Everest keeps walking along, picking up her pace as she gets more and more nervous. I could REALLY use a glass of water; my throat always gets so dry when I’m nervous.

Just as she finishes her thought, a snooty butler, dressed in a jet-black suit saunters by carrying a glass pitcher of water. Everest stops him in his tracks, making some of the water spill out of the pitcher, right onto the butler, soaking the entire front of his shirt.

“EXCUSE ME, MISS!” says the butler angry, “PLEASE WATCH WERE YOU ARE GOING! Some of us are busy with important things, and don’t look like we were just spit out of a carnival fun house.”

Everest looks down at her outfit embarrassed, Maybe I should have just worn a “normal outfit.” This butler is right, I DO look a bit crazy. Trying to forget the butler’s mean remark, Everest asks, “Do you mind giving me a glass of water? I’m so thirsty and would love some water before I preform for the queen.”

“THE QUEEN! YOU ARE HERE TO PERFORM FOR THE QUEEN! PLEASE TELL ME YOU ARE JOKING!” says the butler, astounded.

“Yeah, she invited me,” says Everest, more embarrassed than ever, “Could you please just give me the water, I’m in a real hurry.”

“I suppose so,” says the butler, seeming to have calmed down. He passes a glass to Everest, placing it in her hands. Just as he does that, the cup turns exactly three degrees counterclockwise.

Ugh…not this again. The worst thing about getting nervous for Everest is the always seems to be able to turn things three degrees. Everest tries again and again to pick up the glass, turning it a full circle before she finally succeeds. Just as she puts the glass to her lips, her clown nose pops right of her nose, bouncing around on the floor.

She bends down to pick up the nose, making sure not to spill the water again. As she does that her magic hanker chiefs start to fall out of her pocket, creating a massive pile of fabric right at her feet. “Hold this,” says Everest, handing the glass to the butler, annoyed he didn’t consider helping.

Everest picks up the clown nose and shoves the hanker chiefs back into her pocket, takes the glass back and takes a sip. Finally, water. She finishes gulping her water down, “I should be going now, goodbye!” And makes her way down the hall of the place, ready to see the queen.

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Faucet Mia. G

I turn on the faucet to drown out the sounds of their wailing.

Mom wants me to take a shower, but no – I want to go to bed.

We need to showe- no.

Why would they want it?

I don’t want it – I haven’t seen them.

I’m so thirst- no!

Quickly – the water.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh My hand knows the faucet now.

I can’t hear them now.

Now. Please. We want the water… Why!?

I see her.

She walks long miles.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Alarm.

I hit my phone with all my force – it finally stops.

5 days of every week at the best school – nothing to appreciate.

5-mile trips to the pond. Everyday. Appreciate what we have.

Car. 30 minutes. School.

Feet. 5-miles. Muddy water.

I need to go home.

I want to go to school – You aren’t missing anything.

I don’t know her.

She wants all the wrong things.

Now.

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RAIN Rain is probably the most magical thing in the world. It can end life and restart life. It can drown a tree or help it grow. It comes when you’re expecting it most, grey skies above, dark clouds looming; it comes when you’re least expecting it, in September with hot days and sunny skies.

It can turn a day filled with homework, dance class, and gloominess into a day of soaked tshirts, cut-short recesses, and wonderfully gloomy skies.

But not only does it change the day, it can change the world and how you see it.

The day is May 22, 2019. It’s around either 12:45 or 1:30 in the afternoon, and it’s raining. My group just got out of Dance, and we’re all sprinting to get out of the rain. Except for me and a friend. Sydney (not the Westridge one) and I walk slowly and enjoy the rain. We tilt our heads back and try to catch drops—she succeeds in the endeavor, I’m still waiting for the day I do. It’s pouring, basketball court pelted with rain, heavy flow rushing down from the roof gutter. I look over at Sydney and she’s grinning just as much as me and we’re laughing and getting soaked and we're going to be late to class and I’m thinking about the rain, Sydney, and in the moment, how beautiful the world is.

The sky is that perfect shade of heavy, foreboding rain-grey, the clouds melted into a single quilt that covers the sky in a softer, faded grey. The olive tree we have next to the basketball court is dripping, leaves shaking in the wind, those too turned muted grey-green in the light.

I’ve always been critical of the world. But right now, in this moment, with Dance behind me and a whole world of rain above me, life is perfect.

Euphoria. That’s a word I’d use to describe how I feel when it starts to rain. When you hear the first yell from a friend or just a classmate, when suddenly everyone’s screaming because OMG IT’S RAINING IN LA! When suddenly you hear thunder and that just makes the shrieking louder and you’re sitting in your chair with something glowing in you and you shoot a grin across the room to someone you’ve never talked to and they return it and everything is perfect.

Rainy days in themselves are perfect, even just the idea of them. Curled up on a couch with only a half of the blanket on you because your sibling or parent or pet has the rest, drinking your third hot chocolate, done with your book so now you’re bored but you can’t really complain because the radio’s playing a song you’ve never heard before and have now decided you despise but even that doesn’t matter because it’s raining.

Rain makes everything beautiful. Places, concepts, ideas, people. I love what my backyard looks like at night in the rain, but I also love what people look like in the rain. There’s the people rushing from building to building, sheltering computers and books because this wasn’t forecast as the weather, and they’re their own type of beautiful, but then there’s the people who stay, hair dark with water, flattened against their face and neck, shirt pelted with tiny drops, grinning alongside you. Rain makes people unperfect, and that’s when people look the best. When they’re giving into the joy of rain and don’t care that it’s ruining their hair.

-Miranda F.

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I found it difficult to preform my act of kindness today, due to the Waterfall Festival. As we were selling the foods and crafts, Aliena helped me package the dumplings into the containers as the customers bought them. I thought it was really selfless of her to help me without me asking. As more people came by, I advertised her cheesecakes for her as people passed by, I am not sure how much of a difference that had caused, but I tried by best to get more customers for her cheesecakes. They are absolutely delicious! I thought I would write about this for my good deed because I noticed how kind and supportive Westridge students can be. It is notonly Aliena's helpfulness that I saw, but everyone helping one another during the Waterfall festival. This day strengthened my view of a community, our community, maybe these actions are not the most heroic, but it was touching and honorable seeing us cooperate and support one another mentally and physically. I know that this is not a gratitude page, but I do, from the bottom of my heart feel grateful for being able to meet all of the teachers and classmates, as well as be a part of this group. Today, I advertised for my friend, and saw the glow of this community, felt more warmth being here at Westridge.

-Emily L.

Exhausted, I sit in my chair typing. My migraine still lingers throughout my head, and I fear that I have been a blob the entire day. As you may know, I got very sick during the field trip. My mom suspects that I got car-sick, and that from now on I should probably sit towards the front of the bus. Anyways, before I got sick, I didn't do much besides get ready for school, get on the bus, and listen to Paul's talk. I continue to do nothing but rest, hoping I get better.

Overall, my point is that I have failed to do anything especially kind. The closest thing I can offer is mentioning an act of kindness I received from my friend, Gabby; While I was under the weather, she witnessed me as I sat with teary eyes. Gabby came over to sit next to me, and with a voice as sweet as caramel, she said, "If you want, you can lay your head on my lap, if it helps."

Of course, I instantly plopped my head onto her lap. Thanks Gabby, it meant a lot to me.

Ciao, Arden R.

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BUBBLING Ilena M Sometimes we hide in someone else's shadow.

We become one with the morning one with the afternoon one with the night.

Or at least we used to.

We swim up and up, gasping for breath, for an escape, Since when did we become too old to wonder?

It didn't seem...right, but we weren't so foolish as to question the nonsense.

When we would go down to Navy Pier and dream Life was different. Beautiful.

But the waves in Lake Michigan crash on.

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SILENCE Miranda F. Downing Street was where it could be, back when we had it. In the afternoon shade cast by trees, waiting for the boys to come home, we watch and wonder whether this time, perhaps, our sons wouldn’t be returning…

We all know, not every cat has nine lives left.

Still we would cling to the hopes that our brothers survived the bloodshed, “Is that the ship?” strain over the sea, shoulders touching shoulders, breath against our necks, the talk turns to people we used to know and those we used to love. “I might’ve done it once.”

It is a silence that clings to our skin and a snake baring fangs

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The Demise of Stage Lights Florence J. The pills sit on the windowsill.

It would be a waste to cough them up.

You would be asked to choose, but “One order to go” has already made up my mind.

Has someone really ever broken a leg?

I expect for you to take my breath, sadly, the stage lights have already done it.

Mr. Manel never knew what he was doing, until imagination came into play.

To wait for applause would be wrong; it was the only thing that kept us going.

The more I reveal to her the weaker I get, so don’t do what I did.

Oh, my love…I can’t wait for your demise.

That is if I ever see it, and I know I won’t.

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FENCEPOST SHADOWS James R. Is it time yet? To expect the whistle of a moonlit sun, The shadow of the fencepost we played around as children.

Someday we will wonder why We ever thought we could rule the world.

The sun hit the windowpane like Untouched rocks in a stream And together we ate Mrs. Williams’ shortbread Until we thought we could nearly explode.

Time flies when you’re having fun But oh, where does it go?

And more importantly How do we get it back?

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I’m in Space. Bummer.

Lauren L.

Being launched into the carnivorous void of space all alone was not fun. No company, no people, no living things. It had been forever since I had spoken to another human being. I was so desperate I had even tried speaking to myself, but the vacuum of space sucked my words up. If the quiet wasn’t enough, I was so desperately thirsty. It was horrible being immortal and still being thirsty. What was that on the horizon? Water! A full glass!

One of the bonuses of being immortal was that I picked up a few tips from other orthopedic doctors along the way. I closed my legs, and pinching my nose, the air released from my buttocks propelling me forward towards the glass of water. So close I could practically taste the water, taste the refreshment, taste the river that was about to wind down my throat. I released another blast of air and screamed in horror as I hurtled past the cup of water and into space straight past the cup. 10 minutes later, I finally managed to gain control of my descent, and I truly realized how far past the cup I had gone. The cup was now far behind but lucky for me, I had mastered the reverse air release - the AIR CONSUME! I made a wild grab for the water as I passed by, but I just missed it!

Sobs racked my body, making my face contort in rage. I was a celestial being! I was immortal! But I couldn’t get one measly cup of water. No, no, this is not how it would go down. I had been so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice the asteroid hurtling my way until it was too late. BAM! “Owwww.” I crowed. It felt like being hit in the face with a planet; in other words, it felt terrible. I climbed shakily to my feet and started to stumble around on the asteroid. I found a small clearing with rodent looking animals screaming for food. Wait! How could I understand them? “This is crazy! I have a superpower!” I yelled out gleefully. The animals seemed to have taken a liking to me, and they crowded around my legs sniffing curiously at the newcomer. I stretched my hand out to pet one of them, but he snarled at me showing his wicked fangs. All of them followed suit, snarling and baring their fangs.

I did the only logical thing in that situation… I ran and I screamed. They chased after me, running in a pack as I ducked down into the cave I had come upon and, in this instance, I heard it. The running water of the chasm under me, and I rushed down the side of the chasm, but in my haste, I fell into the ravine and swallowed great gulps of water, but the water weighed me down. I sank to the bottom of the river, not dead, but unconscious, forever.

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Dear Wendy, I Miss Me Cindy C.

Wendy tells her brothers of a bedtime story no so long ago…

They sit by the windows as they listen On one starry night, came a boy named Peter Pan. Glittery pixie dust follows him He takes Wendy and her brothers Hand by hand, Feet by feet into Neverland Twinkling fairies filling the dark night with golden light Shining scales splashing in foaming waves “Ahoy Maties” being yelled across the land of tales There sits a group of boys Lost In a world of Imagination, Loneliness follows In a world of coldness, Heat follows There is no light without a shadow “Come to my world, you will never be alone” Hand by hand Feet by feet, they are swept away A boy in green walks up to a bakery, His hair shooting up like a magnet attached to the sky, taking up 3 inches of his height, The fabric of his clothing going from side to side, non-stop As if his clothes were made from elephant skin Excited as can be With a tall girl next to him She says this is a bakery They feel as if pairs of eyes are watching them, eyes big like aliens “Peter, let’s go inside.”

The bell rings as the door is opened I don’t like this at all, the boy thinks Roaming in the room is a thick smell of bread,

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But if you smelled close enough, you could smell the eerie scent to it You just couldn’t quite grasp the smell “Wendy…”

“Can we go?”

2 blocks from the house is a brick building In front of the black gates Lies a sign and on it says, Middle School for Children What a monotonous name In the front of the sign, Stands a boy, His hair neatly combed and gelled, a blue suit on his body Suffocating He feels anxious and concerned While next to him is a tall girl The girl runs off into the crowd to find her friends The boy stares Crowd?

All he sees are aliens As the clock ticks eight, the aliens turn into monsters Maria Here John Here Peter Pan YOOO!! WASSUP!!!

Sir, please say here when your name is called Oh One sunny day, a boy steps out of a classroom He sits down for lunch, Back straight, and reaches for the knife to cut his chicken Heading back, he passes the professor, And says, “good evening Madam” When the teacher calls on him, He gets out from his chair and picks up the chalk He solves the equation.

X= 0 His face turned towards Wendy the mischievous smile, the toothy grin all gone

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He sits down And stared out the window The mist outside covered everything Colors were faded, the only thing left Were the snowed cover mountains tops.

Everything, virtually grey The mist would be thick and soon It would cover the view from the window into a realm of nothingness.

He dips his pen into the deep black ink And writes a letter Dear Wendy Your world is colder, lonelier than mine Looking in the mirror, I see a monster I miss home I miss my friends I miss Tinker Bell But most of all, I miss me

50 One Step Closer

Miles near Hopes Peace All break Changed Revived Loving not distant Purity Peace has taken place No further Together a hope of a brighter day Imagine

-Sophene A.

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Handle to Hold Lilly S.

My sister whose hair is a rainstorm at sunset on a midsummer’s day, Falling down on a field of corn in Springfield Whose strength is a soaring tower Flying above all caves full of demons that dwell on our shoulders and their whispers in our ear Whose legs are towering willows protecting the green grass from the scorching sun Whose arms are pipes bringing the water to the rivers flowing through Maine Whose eyes are the burrows of bunnies, Delving into the deep blue Atlantic and getting lost in its waves My sister whose voice is the sound of fresh baked bread, sliced and buttered Whose heart is a door that I might never find the handle to Whose heart ushers those inside to the door and leaves it wide open Whose soul is a confusing maze with one secret passage Hidden behind layers upon layers of vine and hidden to those who can’t see through the fights Hidden to those who want it the most and to those who need it when its gone Hidden to those who care but can’t seem to find the words Whose eyebrows are the nests of the crow who screams all night and day Whose eyelashes are as black as the night sky running away from the following sun And fuller than Titan, the largest moon orbiting Saturn Whose nose is the London bridge, curvy, but steady and firm Whose teeth are pearls at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean covered in sand and weeds But still blinding with just a glance Whose waist is a curving weed at the bottom of Willey pond Whose hands are colorful stripy bowls holding spicy nuts, and a pair or two of chopsticks resting in place Whose shoulders are shooting beacons flying through space Who is a locked jar floating in Long Lake in the middle of Maine Who is a plane taking off to Chicago, rumbling and fiery, with a train to LA, staying on the tracks, and a short car ride home, maybe I’ll get a hug this time.

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Friends from the Beginning Saba K.

My friend, whose presence is the sun, hidden behind the thunderclouds on a summer day, Whose thoughts are a fragile glass wall, holding up the weight of the sky, Whose ideas are bursts of green light in the shadows of their thoughts, Whose kindness is a flash of lightning striking the steady ground, gone as soon as it came, Whose hair is a waterfall of coffee, steadily dripping from their forehead, Whose eyes are blades of a blender, thrashing the pupils in circles, Looking down, and then back up, their pupils are the deep sea of colors and surprises, My friend, whose eyelashes are strings of chocolate, sweet and bitter, Whose lips are a bloody Azalea, the torn petals dropping to the ground, Whose back is the trunk of a maple tree in the winter, Whose shoulders are sturdy cardboard from a project last fall, Whose fingers are a clear window opening to embrace the sunlight, Whose legs are the roots of the Sequoya, My friend, whose voice is the waves crashing against the dead shore, to the beat of the drums, Whose laugh is a burst of red in a background of white, Whose smile is a reflection off a broken diamond on the floor, Whose smile is a candle, bright but burning fast.

Whose tears are the hard wax on a plate of silver, Whose tears are stars, concealed from the light of day, Whose pleasure comes from quick talks and empty rooms, From long stares and silent nights.

You are the sun, sitting alongside me when I am content, You are the moonlight falling onto me when I am alone.

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Everything is Going to Be All Right Florence J. My favorite window sits on the old wooden door that does not lock quite right, with its almost waxy black paint that gives it a shiny finish. I can see my entire backyard out this window. Looking out of it is like watching a TV replaying all the bittersweet moments of my life.

I can almost feel the warm summer air as I sit on the pale blue splinted chair next to our pool. My dad is sitting next to his favorite speaker, as it plays only one playlist that has been added to every summer. I love the moments when my favorite song from the list comes on, Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds, as I feel it captures the essence of a July afternoon in Los Angles beautifully. This peace only ever lasted for a second, until my brother poked his head out of the window, opened the door, and then cannon balled into the cold water wearing his Super Mario swim trunks, my dogs following him.

Carrying the white ball of fluff, that I now call Eisenhower, I look through the window as I see my other dog Churchill eagerly waiting to meet his new brother. A few hours later, I come home from school to see that Churchill has dug a hole under the fence that we put up to keep them separated, just as they got used to each other. They are wrestling underneath the big avocado tree at the corner of the garden. My dogs have been best friends ever since.

Or a cool March evening as I walk around my yard in my royal purple soft ball uniform, I can see my mom through the window. Nervously, she refreshes her email repeatedly. An email with the subject line “Welcome Tiger!” pops into her inbox. I run in, slamming the door. I had just been accepted into Westridge. My parents told me that they couldn’t be prouder.

“Don’t kiss any boys!” I heard my Dad say as my mom takes pictures of my friends and me. I saw the kitchen clock through the window and noticed the time, reminding her that we were going to be late to my first school dance.

Soon, I’m going to have more memories out this window than ones to look forward to. I want to hold on to even the horrible ones, the ones with yelling and screaming, the ones with sickness and pain, because at least they are more memories I can hold on to. That’s the tough part about growing up, accepting that you are.

With each day that passes, music doesn’t seem to play as long, birthday songs never feel complete, homework takes longer, and fun moments are shorter. They probably aren’t getting any shorter in the concept of time, but I spend more time these days worrying about how they won’t last forever rather than enjoying them.

In a way, I look though my brother like a window as well. He still carries the magic of childhood, Santa on Christmas morning, playing made up games after school, making his toys play fight as he mutters to himself. I love to see his crooked smile whenever he is happy. And even though I would never tell him, I kind of enjoy when he annoys me just to drive me insane.

My brother reminds me that it is okay to always be a child at heart, and that memories only ever fade away if you let them.

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A Garden Arden R.

A Garden Wonderful whimsical winsome A library of striking colors With each flower a book With each flower a gem in a kaleidoscope Each petal a page filled with rich words Each gracious green stem a radiant ray from the sun No wonder we love you So majestic‌ And greedy You avaricious little pig You steal You steal it all That infernal nectar of life It should be ours You thief How dare you And without it, you wither Just like me Just like the rest of us

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Louder Than Bombs Coco F.

About nine years ago there were 7 guys. They were like anyone else, they were almost all different ages, they didn’t know each other. Kim Namjun, a 17-year-old rapper in the underground, trying to make a living off what he loved. Kim Seokjin, a high class 19-year-old theatre student with no musical ambition, Min Yoongi, an extremely poor 18-year-old trying to make a living rapping, starving himself just to be able to sell his CDs for ten cents. Jung Hoseok, a 17-year-old hip hop street dancer, begging for tips. Then there was Park Jimin, a 16-year-old who loved to dance ballet, Kim Taehyung, another 16-year-old, a son of a poor farmer. And then there was Jeon Jungguk. He was a playboy and your typical middle schooler; he was 14 years old. And then, they all decided to audition for a newly formed entertainment company, called Big Hit. They all got accepted as trainees, and so they worked and labored for 2 years, still having to deal with schoolwork. And then on the 13th of June 2013, they debut as the K-pop newbies known today as a global sensation, by the name of BTS. Which stands for Bang tan Sonyondan, or the Bulletproof Boy Scouts. Bulletproof against hatred and violence.

So, classmates to whom I may be reading this, please don’t groan or go, “UGH!” (that’s one of the songs on their new album, Map of the Soul:7, it’s a song performed by the rap line [JHope, RM, Suga] responding to the malicious anger they receive on a day to day basis, and about how it affects them) because I want to show you what these seven guys mean to over seventyfive million people around the world, and how we see them, and they see us. Just like a purpletinted window.

Now it has grown to be so clear The unfamiliar shadow amidst those cheers Perhaps I wouldn't be able to believe the words: "Let's see and hear only good things" no more Your silent sadness, it shakes me In my quiet sea, waves would sometimes rise Where’s my way?

The ground keeps quaking I collapse on my own, mute Louder than bombs, yeah I want to tell you, that darkness Exists everywhere, don't be afraid of it Whatever night may swallow me, I won't give up The fight for you, we’ll shine These are lyrics from one of their songs (translated obviously) called Louder than Bombs.

You can make what you want of it, but to me, it means that the light and dark of everyday life exists in everything, and that no matter how bad thing may get, we’ll fight together, and we’ll shine.

One day when this cheer dies down, stay (hey) You are my soulmate For eternity, keep staying here (hey) You are my soulmate

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Longer than seven summers and cold winters Longer than numerous promises and memories I remember our uniforms Our memories are movies The dumpling incident is a comedy movie yeah, ayy, yeah, ayy Heartfelt stories filling the school bus Now we go out to drive together Still the same, us of those days “Hey Jimin, today” Jimin and V sing this song, called Friends. It’s a song that shares their story of friendship. It’s incredible to have a friendship as strong and sacred as theirs. I have a friend that I hope I can say the same thing about, we met when we were two years old, and we’ve grown up together. We know everything about each other, she loves the Beatles and rather emo and depressing songs, I like BTS. She loves drawing, I love drawing. She loves blue, brown, black and white, I like pastels and everything pink. We both love video games and froyo, we both have a dog named Lily, and I’d say we’ve been through a lot together. When we’d fight, we would both cry about it for days until we told our moms both sides of the story and they sort of figured it out. And then we would see each other again and then suddenly everything would be okay.

When she was crying over spilled ice cream when we were six, I held her hand. When I was going through my parents separating, she held mine. We’ve been through a lot, and I hope we continue to.

Look at my feet, look down The shadow resembles me Is it the shadow that's shaking Or is it my feet that are trembling Of course I‘m not unafraid Of course it's not all okay But I know Awkwardly I flow I fly together with that black wind Where my pain lies Let me take a breath My everythin' My blood and tears Got no fears I'm singin' ohhhhh Oh I'm takin' over You should know yeah Can't hold me down 'cuz you know I'm a fighter Choosing to descend into the dark abyss This is the poetry we call ON, which is the title track for this album. Here, BTS sings and raps about how everything isn’t always okay, how we can be afraid and scared, we can feel like we’re falling endlessly. But also, about how we have the strength to get up and fight the war we

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call life. And they (RM, Jin, Suga, J-Hope, Jimin, V, Jungkook) will always be there to fight with you.

When they debuted, BTS got a lot of hate. People just didn’t like them. They got death threats (they still do) and they were so unpopular at one point that they were begging people to come to their concert for free. But when they did get hate in other languages, RM (Namjoon, the leader) translated them into messages of love for the other members, keeping all the hate to himself. Speaking of RM, the name used to stand for “Rap Monster”. In 2016, he officially changed it to “Real Me”.

I know that BTS won’t always be a group the way they are now, every band/K-pop group must disband at some point. And I’m happy for them for that. It means no more trips to the hospital for overworking themselves and fainting, it means they can see their family again. It means they can finally breathe. But it sure will be a loss for the world. To some, BTS is just another K-pop group, but to many, many more, it means hope.

Most Armies say that their lives have changed for the better because of them. There have been stories of people in abusive relationships, that they realized they deserved better just because of one song. There are stories of people considering suicide who rethought it after watching the ‘Spring Day’ music video. People quit their cubicle jobs for doing what they wanted to do their whole life because of a V-Live Suga had done in 2013.

The Love Yourself series was a project where they partnered with UNICEF to make a series of albums dedicated to ending violence, promoting self-love, and making the world a better place. It’s a big difference from a lot of music producers out there. Suga went through depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. He starved himself and worried he wasn’t good enough. He was a pizza delivery boy when BTS debut, and during a delivery, he got hit by a truck. He broke his arm. He didn’t go to the hospital or tell anyone, because he was worried what they would think and if they would kick him out. It still hurts him to this day. Jin was scouted off a school bus. He had no musical talent and thought he never would. “I used to watch the meetings my mom and her friends had when I was little. All the other moms were always bragging about their sons and their accomplishments. My mother stayed silent. I think I’ve hopefully become someone my mom can be proud of.” V was pending to get into BTS. He used to sit by the trashcan and watch the other members recording themselves. He cried when he got his letter saying that he was officially a member. All the members have worked night and day for nine years, writing, producing, practicing, starving for where they are now. And that’s why it hurts when people say they hate BTS, they’re ugly, they look like girls, their music isn’t good, that I shouldn’t like them because they don’t speak English, they’re produced, fake, plastic.

Please, don’t do things like that. You don’t have to be a fan, but don’t say hurtful things just because you’re misinformed. That’s what BTS is trying to stop.

We’ve learned how to love ourselves, how to speak our truths, how to love, how to dream and how to wonder, how to care, how to learn, how feel with all our being. And can you believe it all started with seven Korean guys who debuted with a song called No More Dream? But to all of us, they’re much more than that. Because we are one, connected though the universe, and louder than bombs.

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Truth Exposed Amanda G. Hunger and starvation will do things to a person. The body slowly fades away, and the mask each of us so carefully applies begins to wither and die. Bones stick out of the skin at awkward angles. Desperation and selfishness begin to dictate one’s actions. For others, a leader is born from the chaos. Every day, whether we like it or not, each of us puts up a facade; an illusion to the people surrounding us that we are something other than our raw character. Hard times have a way of tearing down that kind of a mask until there is nothing left other than our bare bones. Until our core is out for the world to see. Unapologetically.

Emptiness, a fissure A time devoid of spring The hive of a bee

In A Long Walk to Water, we can clearly see Salva’s uncle’s character. Throughout the group’s journey, he remained calm and levelheaded. Because there wasn’t much food or knowledge of where they were going, some of the group started to lose faith and motivation.

When they came across rough patches, panic began to rise as a dust storm rises in the desert.

Salva’s uncle made it his responsibility to reassure the group and put their doubts at ease. Instead of letting the group drown in chaos, he stepped up to shine a light and offer hope. On page 53, Salva’s uncle was especially comforting. Blinded by tears and the pain of a stubbed toe, Salva felt as though he could not continue. His uncle encouraged him to keep walking, step by step.

Little did he know that this would become a way of life for Salva; just get through it day by day, bit by bit. One foot in front of the other.

Fog across the lens A lighthouse in the dark Steady ebb and flow

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Milo

Stephanie C. My puppy with his ears down and eyes closed is a North American Opossum, sleeping 18 hours a day His long nails are the red ribbons on a Bob’s Sweet Stripe Peppermint My dog’s whiskers are the stiff blades of fencing swords threatening to poke the opponent His tail is the wiggling blaze of a sugar snickerdoodle scented Bath and Body works candle His teeth are the angry thorns on a raspberry bush’s muscular vine My puppy, both ears down is an alarm clocked placed on snooze My dog’s hair is the confused mustache on Charlie Chaplin’s face His paw pads are the dead and dried up ink pads the kindergarteners murdered in Mrs. Redfern’s classroom My dog’s bark is the raindrops are that ricochet from the dark grey clouds as the Sun emerges His licks are sleds flying down the fluffy snow on a hill in Banff, Canada during the Winter My dog’s ears are the bobbing ponytails hitchhiking on the backs of the heads of Westridge students Whose waxing and waning energy is a string of yarn, constantly tangling itself into knots My dog’s nose is a moist sponge, freshly squeezed and deserted in a sink along with a dirty mug and a forgotten spoon My puppy, one ear up and one ear down and ready to eat, sleep, and play, a mug of freshly brewed coffee My dog’s snout is the timeline of a toddler’s shoes, constantly growing bigger His eyes are the fake candles screaming from the inside of a young pumpkin’s corpse My dog’s obedience is a light switch, constantly flipped on and off His dog’s belly is a hefty watermelon sitting in Ralphs, trying to be selected by a customer My dog’s happiness is a room full of starving 7th graders being told they can go to lunch My puppy, both ears up and ready to have a great day

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Staring at a Brick Wall Arden R.

When I still lived in my old room, I had one window. Every morning I would walk over to it, struggle immensely to open the defective curtains, and smile as I saw the view. The heavenly light would shine on my cheeks as I opened my dewy morning eyes, and only then I was to ruin the whimsical moment by yawning loudly, “AOOOMMPH.” This was how it was; in the morning, the afternoon, the evening, at night. I looked through my little window, and saw my little view. It consisted of a rustic and textured surface facing me, with rectangles cleverly arranged all around. Overhead hung thin dark brown arches attached to small green spade-like shapes. In other words, I stared at a white brick wall partnered with a couple twigs.

However sometimes a hairy lump of sun came to greet me at my window. Usually it was to courageously scare off any potential monsters lurking near my living quarters. Other times it came by to deposit a small squishy gift. This, was my dog. And his courageous acts, were his infernal yapping at the neighboring dog. His tiny gifts, was him pooping (despite me clearly telling him that he was not to bring me his ever-so delightful presents in that area.)

If I was lucky enough to catch him in the act, I would attempt to communicate with him, “Wooooof. Ooooof. WoooOOoof. HeeeEyy buUddDy!” Most of the time my attempts were fruitless, he would usually reply with an embarrassed and awkward glare. After a few airy seconds he would finally saunter off, leaving me with my good old brick wall.

Now obviously this window was super intriguing and had multiple subtle and unique nuances that simple plebs wouldn’t understand. So now that I’ve moved rooms, every day I long for the joy that I once experienced, oblivious to the fact that I could simply walk over to it (it’s literally 30 feet away), and experience everything once again; The simple pleasure from seeing my dog sniff at me, the fresh wave of cold air every morning as I open it, the kick I get out of wondering, “What the heck is he barking at now?”, and of course, the great ideas that spark in my mind from staring at my wonderful white brick wall.

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My Dog Lily J.

Whose legs are sycamore trees in a heavy rainfall Whose eyes are the shadow of the smoke in the sky after the fire Whose ears are the ears of a crying lion in the home of a bear Whose tail Is the jacket of the moon Whose paws are the feet the sun walks on when it’s cold Whose tongue is a soft red blanket laying on a warm bed Whose nose is a clock that shows the salty green ocean Whose mind is a book filled with screaming stones Whose fur is burning gold yarn Whose teeth are diamond chandeliers in an empty ballroom Whose whiskers are dull knives sitting in an empty drawer Whose bark is firecrackers flying at the cold ground Whose run is a dedicated bunny running from a weary tiger in a field of poppies Whose toenails are fluffy white pillows with gold embroidery Whose mouth is a closet full of blue dresses with purple ribbon Whose belly is a pillowcase filled with broken pens Whose chin is a troll waiting under a stone bridge Whose head is a green mountain on fire Whose back is a cliff hanging over the cold salty ocean

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Blue Trunk Lusha G. When I think of you, looking at the silver-rimmed picture frame on my desk, I think of so many things. A swing set, a waterfall, a scooter. I think of just too much. A tidepool of words and images rapidly swirling around my throbbing brain, so fast that I can’t quite pin them down for long enough to look back and smile. I think of memories that once seemed to frolic in the air, now hidden in the back corner of my mind. I continue gazing at the small polaroid.

We were tiny, about seven or eight. We both wore matching pink shirts and had goofy smiles coated in mint ice cream. I sigh and flop onto my bed. I haven’t seen you in years. Four, two or three, maybe. I haven’t really talked to you since you moved away. Moved away, moved back, moved to. Other than that one awkward visit and the few texts we’ve sent to each other, I haven’t seen or talked to you at all. I wonder what you’re like now. I hope you’re the same. And yet, I hope you’re different. I know I’ve changed, and I can’t help but hope that you have too.

But I also wish that there’s still a trace of the old you in there. A trace of the songs you’d sing, the jokes you’d make. I miss you so much.

I miss the way you hugged me when I was sad, the way you’d let me borrow your pencil then keep it. I miss the way you’d flaunt your homemade Nutella sandwiches. I miss the pool parties, the races, the nerf gun battles. The playdates, hang outs, sleepovers that we’d never want to end.

One thing I miss, is how each morning after a sleepover, we’d quietly tip toe to the tall glass window that you had in your living room. The glass window that I loved, the glass window that had a pretty overview of the city. Tall, shiny buildings poking into the air like needles. We’d sit on the floor and watch, mesmerized, as a yellow glowing orb pushed through hazy stars and into the fresh blue sky. We’d watch as the buttery sunlight slipped out and blinded our eyes. Still, we kept looking. We’d watch as a thin fog sat around the sun, twirling into a cool mist. We’d watch as the birds poked their heads out from your backyard trees, squirrels prancing from branch to branch. We’d watch as the moon cried and dissolved, sucking the last footsteps of a black sky with it. The clouds, which looked like sugary fluff, began to roll in and position themselves around the sun, before the wind started pushing them away.

Then we’d smile. Smile as a golden tint flooded the room. It was all so beautiful, so heartbreaking.

I miss you. I still remember those odd documentaries we’d watch on Youtube. The one about animals that could do all sorts of weird things, like that elephant who could paint the ocean with just a couple of oil pastels.

We were transfixed as we watched that old elephant swiftly swipe her trunk. She was a towering boulder of gray, with the name of Sarah, or Sally. She had deep groves under her eyes and thick, rocky hooves. Her eyes were foggy and glassy. They’d looked like a portal to something, something secret.

She had a long, rounded body that sagged at the sides. Her trunk, however, was magnificent. A long, bending trident that could transform a blade of grass into gold. She was so fast and talented. Her mind focused on her work, her body still, while her trunk wove around wildly, like the last flickers of an antsy flame.

I longed to be like her.

The paintings were awesome, layers of foamy white chalk pressing against light blue chunks of paint. After she was done, she’d bow her tired trunk, a hint of a smile peeking out

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from under, then silently walk back to the small clearing that she liked to sit in. She was a lightning bolt, a shooting star.

Yes, now I remember. A thumbtack in my mind, finally pinning down a wave of words.

Whenever I think of you, an image comes to mind. I think of an elephant, lifting its trunk, shooting up bursts of love, into one beautiful sunrise.

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Alien From the Sun Emily L.

My friend whose spoken words are tides crashing onto the beach on a quiet evening Whose glistening eyes are cocoa beans dancing upon drops of melted ice Arms in the pockets of her jean, she is a statue enhancing the aroma from the perfumes of old movies Whose arms are tightropes, pulling up the remains from the abyss of the ocean Whose arms are marshmallow-toasting fireplaces My friend is the glowing star that brightens the cloudless sky Whose cheeks are apples given by the heat of the sun Whose hands are deserted mountains dancing with the wind, Trees dragging the sky to dancing along with the soft sounds produced by the wind Her fingers are noodles from a bowl of ramen, Hitting notes from the strings of a flat guitar and black n’ white keys Humble nails cover the tip of the fingers, a pink dress for the noodles She has a lemon smile, blue-wired teeth The music of sweet lemonade makes ripples of sound waves, Half circles forming from other lips Her shoulders are unfired fireworks as well as the fireworks themselves, spectrum of varies colors evading the insipid starry night Her hair is the lion’s curly mane, a scale of variant colors struck by sunlight, gently whistling a soft song She is an alien from the Sun.

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Hold that Thought Arden R.

ceiling.

When I lie on the lump that is my pillow, I like to gawk at the grainy nothingness of my

“And so, it begins,” I think. This night, just like every other night, I’ll stare, and think, and stare, and think about me thinking and staring. As well as shift positions every so often.

Because, you know, vAriEty. Anyways, I’ll speak to myself, and I’ll sing and make odd flailing movements with my arms. I’ll conjugate together some bizarre and arbitrary story that I’ll eventually forget in the morning, or finish an argument that I had a week ago, “Darn it, Jenny! I was referring to a nonspecific baby! Why do you care if I called it an it or not? I don’t know the gender, it’s NONSPECIFIC!” On top of everything, I’ll get frustrated knowing that only when I’m nice and comfy in my blankets will I realize I have to pee.

And all of this happens with my head on my pillow, from start to finish. The pillow will sink with the weight of my head. Most of that weight comes from all the erratic thoughts zipping through here and there. Especially the more figuratively heavy ones, similar to this taxing existential thought I had yesterday, “Why are cookies baked and bacon cooked?!” Perhaps that’s why we feel somewhat refreshed in the morning; because our pillow has ever so generously taken all our haphazard thoughts to store them. Perhaps somewhere deep inside the fluff in my pillow, I can find a wooden box full of all that.

Any dream or fantasy or idea could be found as a petite sphere of light, like a luminous marble, and retrieved. I could cringe at whatever total nonsense I was thinking that night, or gasp as I realized that that dream could, really, make a great movie plot.

I can see it all now, our eyes closed peacefully while the otherworldly juices of thoughts and feelings slip below into the pillow. Expanding, the pillow would give out an, “Emmmph” noise as it absorbed everything. Doing so, it would keep a log, “Arden, at 2:12 a.m., has gone to the moon on a rubber band… While playing croquet with Doris Day and Kermit the Frog.” Something like that, anyhow. Sounds close enough to my overzealously blue-sky mind.

Just picture a Jump’n Jammin packed with frenzied toddlers (and in case any of you haven’t been blessed with a trip to Jump’n Jammin, it’s an indoor playground for kids, but closer to an underaged war zone) – and that is my nocturnal brain.

Not to mention how I’ll panic whenever I squint at a coat in the dark for too long. “Is that my sweater or is that shadowy figure a malformed man eyeballing me? Better wave my arms around to scare it away. There, totally intimidated by my noodle arms.”

Or when I turn off all the lights getting ready for bed, and dash through the halls to my room in case any demons decide to suddenly appear, because that is rational thinking.

So tonight when I lie on the extraordinary lump that is my pillow, I’ll stare at the grainy nothingness that is my ceiling, and as I begin to create my bizarre and arbitrary stories, I’ll mutter sweetly to myself, “Pillow, please hold that thought.”

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alien poem Luciana P. you think we’re aliens because she is dark and you are light and i’m somewhere in between you think we’re aliens because you come from here and i come from there you think we’re aliens cause you talk the right way and i talk “improper” because I’m a girl and you’re a boy you think we are aliens because we are different. but we feel the same

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Just White to You

By: Tzedek SG My response to the word ‘alien’ Erase my history, Until I am a blank canvas, Erase my words, Erase my narratives, To you my stories aren’t imperative, To you I am white, But when I put up a “fight”, I am one of them, Not a part of your “we” nor my people’s “they”, That is what you say when you are unable to relate, You tell me I am white so you can sleep at night, Does telling me I am white make you “woke”?

Because I cannot relate with the ache in my ancestors’ bones, Because it doesn’t shine through, Because I am just white to you, But look at your arms, The same arms used to hold us down, Oppressed by the oppressor, Separated from the community, Try to separate La Raza’s unity, And give yourselves immunity, Trying to pin your guilt on me, Well now I see through, But what does it matter if I am just white to you?

Staring at me to make sure I don’t steal, Wake up! You don’t know how it feels!

Does what I have gone through offend you?

Brutality of your power turn my people black and blue, But you don’t recognize, Cause I am just white to you, When I am silent, I am an alien, Illegal, I need to get out, So I speak up, you wanna be the same now?

I will not yield, cause when times get tough you use your privilege as a shield, I know I have privilege, but my families were out in the fields, You try to steal, Is my identity up for grabs?

To the gringos I will not kneel, And la raza will not yield!

These were the lies I was feed, I no longer believe I am at the end,

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As Zapata once said, I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees, Bodies hanging off trees, Farmworkers out there plucking weeds, My mom did not raise a caga palo, You won’t beat me with my identity and call me “malo”, You will not lash mi Corazon by washing me out, We are not the same!

You will not break mi sangre, I’m allowed to use my name!

When you see me in public, I am part of a gang, But if I keep quiet, “Maybe we can hang,” Nah, I am no bendido, I won’t be controlled by any gringo, But I guess I am a fool, If I am just white to you.

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Imagination Destination Natalie M. I look out. I see notes, flying as if gravity doesn’t exist. Hmm, well, in this world it doesn’t. There are no limits to what I can see; it is all the possibilities of my vast imagination.

Never-ending. Limitless. Everlasting. It is infinity. I feel the sounds of pencil on paper and smell the foggy sunset. I hear the wind howling even though the night is still. With closed eyes, I take a deep inhale and enter.

It is a world where I can escape. Hide and regroup my thoughts, get a clear game plan and figure out how I will make this work. Yet crowded with my many thoughts and endless fears. I am told, “You can’t do it”, “You are not good enough”. I come here in hopes to escape that, sometimes there is so much pain I am numb, I don’t feel any of it, just emptiness. Other times, these fears contain me and there is no escape. I sit there, eyes closed, and accept what I cannot change. This is not the mentality I wished to have. I wish I could just tell myself to push through and make it out of this mess I am for myself, stronger and brighter. However, that fairytale ending that every Disney movie protagonist promises you, are not real, they do not exist. Yet I found a way to run free in this world, where my responsibilities disintegrate to dust, floating off into the unknown. But it wasn’t always this way… I used to be scared even in this world I had created for myself. I came here, held onto all the pain as if it was all I had, and stayed. I would sit there for hours, waiting for it all to go away. I was overwhelmed.

Besieged. However now, I can come here in hopes to relax, to live free, to smile once again. It is all thanks to that one little girl who looked up to me through that reflection and let me know it would be ok, that I would find a way and that It would be very soon. She showed me who I would become and why I should not let go of what I wanted to do and what made me happy.

To not let others’ thoughts about me keep me from developing into who I was meant to become. To follow my dreams to the end, knowing I had people who supported me. This is MY world where I can put graphite on paper, erase with a rubber blob and not have expectations for myself. I can experiment WITHOUT hearing “Oh, that’s umm…. Interesting.”

I turn around, a little girl is looking at me through a window. Or perhaps it is I that am in the window. She looks to me with such respect in her eyes, as if looking up to a goddess. I smile, and she smiles back. Flash. Then I appear on a podium giving a speech, hoping I will win 1st place speaker. Flash. Now I seem to be running up to the volt. Closing my eyes and hoping I land my trick. Flash. Lifting the pencil from my page to see the mistakes I have made. Flash.

Playing the last three measures of my song and hoping I pass the national exams. Flash. I hear “And finally, 1st place speaker, the golden gavel of the tournament goes to…” Flash. Two feet hit the floor, a perfect landing! Flash. The drawing seems to have no mistakes. Flash. One of the most respected pianists at that conservatory stands and applauds me. Flash. My thoughts seem to have come back to me. What just happened? Where those dreams? That girl’s dreams? The girl’s smile grows even wider. She seems to have also returned to reality.

But she has changed. Now, she appears like… me. She is no longer that smiling girl I saw before. She looked into my soul with those eyes which seemed to be the only thing that actually changed about her. She felt like a whole new person. Such a young girl, yet such old and tired eyes. Eyes that looked like they had experienced it all, had been to hell and came back. I couldn’t look away from this girl’s eyes. Her eyes were still changing. I could tell they

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weren’t hers. She could no longer see me; she was being shown something through the eyes of others. She was no longer human when the last pair of eyes flashed in her. These eyes were beyond wise, surreal. They glowed a haunting yet gentle light. I started to panic; these eyes had been showing her something for an unsettling long time. I was about to run over when she collapsed to the group and whispered “You can do it… I saw the angel…”

The window of her dreams, of my dreams. It has always been there. A place I can float off to when I need a break from reality. A place I could imagine my ambitions. A place where I could come to see things from a new light.

Oh, how I will miss the cheering crowds, the debate newscaster who seemed to always butcher my last name, the incredible times when anything was possible. I will miss the bitter moment when realization hit me, when I realized this wasn’t even real. I will miss when my heart skipped a beat out of happiness when I was on step closer to my dreams. There are a lot of things I will miss when I leave this world. However, I always knew I could not stay here forever. I knew that when the time came, it will be all good things. After all, they do say to chase your dreams… And thanks to that little girl who was shown she would never have that fairytale ending, I learned to fight for what I wanted to be, to tune out the voices that once haunted my every move and welcome the angelic voices who would always support me. From that day on, I never needed to go back to that world. Yet sometimes, I spot that little girl, from the corner of my eye, watching me with that same smile she gave me so many years ago…

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2018: A Space Essay James R One of the things I truly loved as a kid was the concept of outer space. I have been fixated on space, almost to the point of oddity, since I was about three or four. I remember my favorite movie was E.T. for a while. And by “a while”, I mean, “I watched it every day for two years straight”. My great grandmother gave me some books about space for my birthday, one year, huge encyclopedias of stars and planets and astronomical phenomena. My aunt, to satiate both my obsession with space and Greek mythology, gave me a book that was the story of Icarus, retold in the vast expanse of space, far in the future. I loved all of those books. I would read them over and over, looking at the pictures and reading what few words I could, being four or five when I first got some of them. And the book my aunt gave me? It’s still on my bookshelf.

I still read it from time to time.

One of the things that was unusual about me though (and believe me, there are so many), is that even as a little kid, I didn’t actually want to be an astronaut. From what I can tell, most kids who love space that much want to go there someday. I didn’t, really. I’m not sure of the reason. Perhaps it was that I had other career ambitions (I think I wanted to be a writer at that age), or maybe it was because of the people telling me that I couldn’t go to space because outer space and aliens and things of that nature were supposedly “only for boys”. Whatever the reason was, I didn’t want to be an astronaut until I was nine.

I remember my mom getting back from a trip, telling me that she watched a movie on the plane that she thought I would like. I was skeptical, because what nine-year-old wants to watch a “grown up” movie? One rated PG-13? No. I absolutely didn’t. She must’ve convinced me though, because a few nights later, there I was on the couch with my parents and grandparents, watching The Martian. Suffice it to say, when my mom said that she thought I would enjoy The Martian, she drastically underestimated me.

I watched that movie constantly. I watched it over and over again, on planes, in the car, when I was at home, sick. Alongside it, I also watched movies like Gravity, Interstellar, and 2001: A Space Odyssey but The Martian really just took my breath away. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it’s about a man on an expedition on Mars, who, in the event of a sandstorm, gets left behind by the rest of his team of scientists. The score is amazing, the soundtrack even better, the cinematography is excellent, and best of all, all of the science was checked by scientists at NASA. I was fascinated, to the point that I read the book the movie was based on in one day and later decided that I was going to be the first person on Mars.

I later came to my senses.

Being someone with severe anxiety, claustrophobia included, I realized that being alone in a tiny spaceship in the middle of the dark, star-filled void was probably not the best career path for me. After that, my space obsession died down for a little while. That’s not to say it went away completely, but it definitely wasn’t as intense. At least, not until I heard about the Opportunity rover.

I first heard about NASA’s complications with Opportunity when I was scrolling down my Tumblr dashboard, on a dark afternoon in February. The post was a news article about the rover, and of course I was interested. The article explained how the Opportunity rover had gotten stuck in the middle of a sandstorm on Mars, and consequently started shutting down. I was sad for it, definitely, but because I’m a teenager and not a scientist at NASA, I moved on and forgot about it. For a few days, at least.

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A few nights later, I heard that NASA had finally terminated Opportunity’s mission, and that the last thing it sent to them was a battery reading and a report of its visual status. However, in the official statement NASA released, they said that Opportunity’s last words were “My battery is low and it’s getting dark.” For some strange reason, that kind of hit me hard. It was so hauntingly human, this message that NASA had released of a little robot’s last words.

Opportunity was built to last ninety days, but instead lasted for fifteen years. It was built, like so many things are, because of humans’ desire to explore the universe, simply because we want to know what out there, and if we’re really alone. We built this robot to explore for us, and it died, all by itself, in the middle of a sandstorm. This happened in February of 2018, and I wasn’t in such a good place then. I was constantly anxious, with undiagnosed ASD, I had just nearly failed a math test for the first time, I was dealing with some toxic friendships, I was balancing school and religion and therapy, and I wasn’t even sure who I was as a person. I was feeling alone, so tragically, mortifyingly alone. But the Opportunity rover, this little robot millions of miles away, was alone too. And for reasons I can’t explain other than the fact that I am human, I connected with it. I was dejected over the loss of Opportunity. Because humans built it to explore a distant planet for only three months, but it kept going and lasted sixty times its original mission time. Because humans gave it a name and took its reports and created words that were so hauntingly human. And most of all, because this robot was like me, broken and alone.

Since then, I’ve gotten much better. I am no longer obsessed with my grades, I have a really great group of friends, and I’ve figured a lot of things out. That doesn’t stop me from thinking about Opportunity sometimes though. It’s oddly comforting.

I think it’s so strange that I, among thousands of other, were so distraught and yet almost comforted by Opportunity. I read so many articles and saw so many pieces of art dedicated to it, and it really made me think about human nature. Even though we as a species are violent and terrible, better at destroying then creating, we also simply don’t want to be alone in the universe.

That’s what drove us to create these robots that we sent to explore. The fact that when one of them was shut down thousands of people were so upset, and NASA released its last words, and people cared so much about it, is so strange to me. Humans are destructive and violent and exceptional at tearing things down, but deep down we don’t want to be alone. When we feel isolated, with no one to talk to, with no one to listen, we fall into a downward spiral, not knowing where to go or what to do. At least, that’s what it was like for me.

We built these robots to find out if there’s someone, anyone else out there. We built them because at heart, we are confused and curious, something that is so deeply human. We called these robots Curiosity, Spirit, and Opportunity. Because that’s what we’re looking for, isn’t it?

An opportunity that there might be something other than this empty universe.

And I think that’s beautiful.

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Otherworldly Window MG N.

I set down my math packet and pencil. Sitting in my mom’s living room, I stare out the big window with a view of my front yard, the street, and the world around me. Every time I glance out this window, my attention is diverted to a biker, or a pedestrian, or even a little gray cat wandering up someone’s driveway. I get caught up in the different worlds these people and animals have. Although everyone coexists on the same planet, they each have their own lives and their own views on every aspect of their day. Through the window I can live a few seconds of those lives and be those humans and creatures and feel their emotions. It is an escape from my boring math homework, that I will return to in a few minutes.

As I watch these people walking jogging or biking down my quiet street, I start to think about their lives and perspectives. Whether it is a grouchy woman slapping her maroon tennis shoes down on the pavement, or a distracted teenager waddling past my driveway will his head slumped down over his phone, every one of them is interesting and unique. From their accessories or postures, I can build imaginary people. Even if they are nothing like my versions of them, I can still make these new characters that have incredible hobbies and funny habits.

Some people display their emotions right on their faces and in their body language, while others are more difficult to figure out, leaving even more for my imagination to design.

Becoming these people lets me be someone I aspire to or someone I want to figure out.

They give me creativity and develop my imagination as I add more characters to the list in my head. These five minutes are a short, but colorful interruption to my uneventful afternoon.

With a sigh, I return to my math homework, bidding farewell -for now- to my fantasy world and all its quirky people.

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Windows Lindsay B.

I look down from the 71st floor of the U.S Bank Tower on to the streets and buildings of Downtown LA. The people, which look like ants scurrying around in a hurry or just casual inching slowly with a collection of people to their destination.

Cars zoom by left and right, taillights streak with red, and everything keeps moving.

Time doesn’t stop, so the world keeps moving.

The normal sounds of the bustling city and sounds of people chattering, bickering and laughter is sucked away like a vacuum in space replaced by white noise.

I bring my gaze up higher, buildings of all heights surround the tower I'm standing in.

This tower overlooking the white noise of four-wheelers, and buildings which encircle the skyscraper stays strong through wind and rain. I think of the tall great Red Woods who withstood hundreds of years of natural disasters. None can reach to the height I'm in. I am the giant in Jack in the Beanstalk, looking down from his beanstalk, through the clouds and onto everything so miniature and different. As a child I would constantly have to look up to the adults in your life, but here your 71 stories above them all. Here you can be closer to the sky than ever, so close to the clouds it’s possibly to be above them.

Slowly, the sun begins to hide behind the buildings in front of me, bidding us goodbye, leaving a silent promising to return tomorrow. But promises can be broken.

‘See you tomorrow’ a promise, but anything can happen between the hours until tomorrow. I hope when the window of light comes for me or anyone else that all your promises are fulfilled. As I step away from a beautiful lie taking steps to the easy path, I’ll miss the water. How it flows and can be free in so many forms, I’ll miss the plant

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that provided oxygen, but also beauty. Would I forgot the feeling of just being above everything and the feeling of freedom and believing I could fly? Or would it be replaced by the new safety, of my soul returning to the Watcher of Earth.

Flick! Like a light switch everything changes. The sky, which was once a never-ending light blue, has turned to a deep purple. Gold lights flick on from all the windows in the city. “It’s beautiful” is my first thought. I feel with the lights glowing from every which way making me never feel the loneliness of being left in the dark.

The purple sky fades into darkness, but the lights shine through as well as the red taillights, and flashy head lights reflect onto the window. I feel as though I have watched a movie. I saw it all through a screen of glass, never truly experiencing it.

Still, this memory goes through my eyes, the window, to which people say is the soul.

And because of these windows I want it to be light forever, because to me it is safety.

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Twins Amanda G. Dear friend whose giggles are the bubbles in my drink Whose smile welcomes the autumn breeze Dear friend whose wit is a cat with a tassel Whose thoughts are matches to a flame Whose ears are hounds on the hunt Dear friend whose heart has no end The waves against the golden sand Whose head is a lightyear from the ground Whose tongue leaps like a flea in spring Dear friend whose farts are the Kraken under the tide The wasps in the nest, the bees in the hive Whose knees are piĂąa colada taffies Dear friend whose tales reach Pluto Dear friend whose spirit captures the embers from a flame Whose lips are lemonheads biting into your tongue Whose voice is honeysuckle from the vine Dear friend whose arms are laundry on a clothesline Whose eyes are sea glass gleaming in the pools My friend, mi amiga The piĂąata at the party

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How to be perfect Rachel K.

I have spent my life working on this process, perfecting it. I am now ready to show it to you. I'm sure you are skeptical, but I invite you to try it. You'd be surprised.

Step one: define perfect. You thought this was easy? Perfection, in itself, is a delusion. It's a myth. You wish to be perfect? Make it a reality. What does it mean to you? Maybe you always remember your friends birthdays and cook an incredible chocolate cake. Maybe you get good grades and never fail to impress your teachers. What is your perfect? We are all different. We live different lives with different people. We have different opportunities and skills. Perfection isn't one size fit all.

Step two: don't despair when you fail step one. Let me guess what you did after reading step one.

You thought of someone else, someone you admire, a friend, parent or hero. You failed.

Perfection is a delusion, remember? It's your fever dream, not theirs. Your definition has nothing to do with those Instagram models and their twenty packs. You can't compare your life to theirs.

Step three: make sure your definition is plausible. Even after step two, I'm certain perfection still feels far away. You have to simply accept the truth. Some of us can't always be on time. Some of us can't always get perfect scores. Consider your life and the people around you. What is your definition, and how does it include them? If your sister makes you late to school every day and you want to be early, you can't just chuck her out of the car.

Step four: realize that this is a scam. You are perfect. Don't tell me your not. Perfection is an idea, a trophy, that society has placed far too far away from us. No definition of perfect will be perfect, because perfection isn't tangible. Perfection isn't in the little acts or the laughs. It's in you and everyone else. There will always be the places that we can't do well in. The areas we need to work harder in. They don't make you imperfect or any less. Perfection is in trusting that you are doing your best. It is in trusting that everyone is only doing their best. Perfection is showing up and trying. You can only do your best.

Step five: accept step four. You are perfect. Say it to yourself when you're hunched over the dinner table trying to finish your math homework. Say it to yourself when you're losing the race.

You are perfect. Chant it before you give a speech. Whisper it before you fall asleep. You are perfect. The world's harsh. People are cruel. We only do our best. That is perfection.

Step six: that'll be $99.99. 18% tip recommended for changing your life. A bar of chocolate if you really want to show appreciation.

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Last night when I was in bed, my mom came in my room. My eyes were closed, and the lights were off, so she thought I was asleep. She brushed my cheek gently with her fingertips and kissed my forehead, then left the room. I savored that moment, and I want to hold on to that warm and cozy feeling; it felt like love.

Love, Luciana P.